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THE  NATURE  AND  ELEMENTS 
OF  POETRY 


THE  MUSE,   OF   CHRISTENDOM 


Page  I4O 


THE 


NATURE  AND  ELEMENTS 
OF    POETRY 


BY 


EDMUND    CLARENCE   STEDMAN 

AUTHOR  OF  "  VICTORIAN    POETS,"    "  POETS   OF^AMBRICA,"   BTC. 


BOSTON   AND    NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLTN   AND   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1892, 
Bv  EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 

All  rights  reserved. 


SECOND  EDITION. 


Tkt  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


TO 

LAWRENCE   AND   FRANCESE   TURNBULL, 

OF  BALTIMORE,  MARYLAND, 
AND  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THEIR  SON, 

PERCY   GRAEME    TURNBULL, 

WHOSE   LIFE   AND   DEATH    INSPIRED   THEIR   FOUNDATION 

OF  THE  LECTURESHIP    OF   POETRY   AT  JOHNS 

HOPKINS   UNIVERSITY,  THIS  VOLUME 

IS   DEDICATED. 


INTRODUCTION 


THE  series  of  lectures  contained  in  this  volume, 
although  now  somewhat  revised  and  extended,  formed 
the  initial  course,  as  delivered  in  1891,  of  the  Percy 
Turnbull  Memorial  Lectureship  of  Poetry  at  Johns 
Hopkins  University.  In  founding  that  lectureship, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lawrence  Turnbull  commemorated  the 
name  of  their  son,  Percy  Graeme  Turnbull,  who  died 
in  1887,  having  nearly  completed  his  ninth  year. 
The  brief  life  of  a  child,  who  gave  promise  of  fulfill- 
ing the  utmost  wishes  of  parents  devoted  to  things 
good  and  fair,  has  been  of  higher  service  than  that 
which  many  whose  lights  "  burn  to  the  socket "  are 
permitted  to  render. 

In  conformity  with  the  terms  of  the  gift,  a  course 
of  lectures  is  to  be  delivered  annually  by  some  maker 
or  critical  student  of  poetry.  There  is  but  one  other 
foundation  dedicated  to  this  art  alone,  as  far  as  I  can 
learn,  among  British  and  American  universities,  that 
being  the  chair  endowed  at  Oxford  by  Henry  Birk- 
head,  in  1708,  from  which  much  learned  argument 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

has  been  delivered  since  the  time  of  Warton,  and  to 
which  we  owe  the  criticism  of  Doyle,  Shairp,  Pal- 
grave,  and  the  high  discourse  of  Arnold,  in  our  own 
day.  Had  Mr.  Lowell's  health  enabled  him  to  ini- 
tiate the  Turnbull  lectureship,  the  foundation  would 
have  derived  a  lustre  at  once  the  light  and  the 
despair  of  his  successors.  In  the  shadow  of  his 
lamented  death  it  became  my  duty  and  distinction  to 
prepare  the  following  lectures,  which  are  now  issued 
in  reconsideration  of  an  intention,  expressed  in  my 
last  preceding  volume  of  criticism,  to  write  no  more 
books  upon  the  present  theme. 

Perhaps  it  is  only  natural  that  such  an  intention 
should  be  overcome  by  a  striking  illustration  of  the 
fact  that,  under  stress  of  public  neglect  or  distaste, 
the  lovers  of  any  cause  or  art  find  their  regard  for 
it  more  unshaken  than  ever.  It  seemed  to  me  a 
notable  thing  that  at  a  time  when  poetry  as  the 
utterance  of  feeling  and  imagination  is  strenuously 
rivalled  by  other  forms  of  expression,  especially  by 
the  modern  industry  of  prose  fiction  ;  at  a  time  when 
journalism,  criticism,  science  more  than  all,  not  only 
excite  interest,  but  afford  activity  and  subsistence  to 
original  writers ;  at  a  time,  moreover,  when  taste  is 
fostered  by  the  wealth  of  those  to  whose  luxury  the 
architect,  the  artist,  and  the  musician,  rather  than 
the  poet,  are  ready  to  minister  ;  it  seemed  to  me 


INTRODUCTION  ix 


notable  and  suggestive  that  at  such  a  time,  though 
many  think  of  poetry  as  the  voice  of  the  past,  a  few 
should  still  consider  it  a  voice  of  the  future  also,  and 
that  there  should  be  found  what  I  may  call  practical 
idealists,  to  discover  one  need  of  our  most  liberal 
schools,  and  to  do  this  much  to  relieve  it. 

I  have  thought  it  appropriate  that  an  opening 
course  upon  this  foundation  should  relate  to  the 
absolute  nature  of  the  art  which  future  lecturers  will 
consider  more  in  detail  with  respect  to  its  technical 
laws,  varied  forms,  and  historic  illustrations.  These 
pages,  then,  treat  of  the  quality  and  attributes  of 
poetry  itself,  of  its  source  and  efficacy,  and  of  the 
enduring  laws  to  which  its  true  examples  ever  are 
conformed.  An  attempt  to  do  this  within  brief 
limits,  notwithstanding  the  extent  of  the  subject,  is 
not  quite  impracticable,  since  whether  the  "first 
principles  "  of  any  art,  even  of  the  philosophy  of  all 
arts  and  knowledge,  can  be  tersely  set  forth,  is  not 
so  much  in  question  as  is  the  skill  of  one  who  tries 
to  epitomize  them. 

In  the  consideration  of  any  subject,  however  ideal, 
an  agreement  as  to  what  shall  be  denoted  by  its  title 
may  well  be  established  at  the  outset.  Therefore  I 
have  not  evaded  even  that  which  it  is  so  customary 
to  deprecate,  —  a  definition  of  the  thing  examined  in 
this  treatise.  It  must  be  observed  that  our  discus- 


INTRODUCTION 


sion  is  of  poetry  in  the  concrete,  and  as  the  actual 
record  of  human  expression,  —  keeping  ever  in  mind, 
no  less,  the  uncapturable  and  mysterious  spirit  from 
which  its  energy  is  derived.  I  say  this,  because 
most  essays  upon  the  theme  have  been  produced  by 
one  or  the  other  of  two  classes,  —  either  by  tran- 
scendentalists  who  invoke  the  astral  presence  but 
underrate  its  fair  embodiment,  or  by  technical  arti- 
sans who  pay  regard  to  its  material  guise  alone. 
There  is  no  good  reason,  I  think,  why  both  the 
essence  and  the  incarnation  of  poetry  may  not  be 
considered  as  directly  as  those  of  the  less  inclusive 
and  more  palpable  fine  arts.  At  all  events,  an  at- 
tempt is  made  in  this  volume  to  do  that  very  thing. 

Even  this  enforced  brevity  makes  it  the  more 
needful  that  my  course  should  be  in  good  faith  what 
its  title  indicates  —  elementary.  But  the  simplest 
laws  and  constituents,  those  most  patent  to  common 
apprehension,  are  also  the  most  profound  and  abid- 
ing. Their  statement  must  be  accurate,  first  of  all ; 
since,  as  in  the  present  instance,  it  seeks  to  deter- 
mine the  initial  aim,  and  a  hairbreadth's  deviation  at 
the  start  means  a  ruinous  divergence  as  the  move- 
ment progresses.  I  make  no  apology,  then,  for  what 
is  elementary  and  oft-repeated,  my  wish  being,  in  this 
opening  discussion  of  that  wherewith  the  Turnbull 
lectureship  is  concerned,  to  derive  a  statement  of  first 


INTRODUCTION  XI 


principles  from  the  citation  of  many  illustrious  wit- 
nesses and  creative  works.  If,  therefore,  I  seem  to 
thresh  old  straw,  it  is  not  without  design ;  and  often, 
instead  of  making  the  curious  references  so  easily 
culled  from  the  less-known  books  upon  our  shelves, 
I  repeat  passages  most  famous  and  familiar,  —  the 
more  familiar,  as  a  rule,  because  none  apter  in  illus- 
tration can  be  cited. 

In  the  endeavor  to  use  time  to  the  best  advantage, 
it  seemed  most  feasible  to  begin  with  a  suggestion 
of  reasons  why  poetry  does  not  obtain  the  scientific 
consideration  awarded  to  material  processes,  and  then 
to  review  important  outgivings  of  the  past  with  re- 
spect to  it ;  and  next,  to  essay  a  direct  statement  of 
its  nature  (analyzing  the  statement  logically),  and  to 
add  a  correlative  view  of  its  powers  and  limitations 
as  compared  with,  and  differentiated  from,  those  of 
the  other  fine  arts.  I  found  it  serviceable,  afterwards, 
to  divide  all  poetry  —  as  indeed  the  product  of  every 
art  may  be  divided  —  into  the  two  main  results, 
creation  and  self-expression,  the  vitalities  of  which 
are  implied  in  those  well-worn  metaphysical  terms, 
the  objective  and  the  subjective.  The  former  char- 
acterization applies  to  that  primitive  and  heroic  song 
which  is  the  only  kind  recognized  by  a  Macaulay, 
with  his  faculty  attuned  to  the  major  key.  But, 
after  all,  there  was  much  self-expression  in  "the 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

antique,"  just  as  there  are  stately  examples  of  objec- 
tive creation  in  the  poetry  of  Christendom.  There- 
fore it  was  not  possible  to  confine  a  third  lecture 
entirely  to  the  one,  nor  a  fourth  entirely  to  the  other. 
The  creative  element,  however,  is  the  main  topic  of 
the  third,  while  the  fourth,  entitled  "  Melancholia," 
pursues  chiefly  the  stream  of  self-expression.  To- 
gether, the  two  afford  all  the  scope  permitted  in  this 
scheme  for  a  swift  glance  at  the  world's  master- 
pieces. The  way  now  becomes  clear  for  examination 
of  the  pure  attributes  which  qualify  the  art  we  are 
considering :  —  on  the  side  of  aesthetics,  beauty,  — 
and  therewith  truth,  as  concerns  the  realistic,  the  in- 
structive, the  ethical ;  then  the  inventive  and  illu- 
minating imagination,  and  passion  with  its  motive 
power  and  sacred  rage ;  lastly,  the  faculty  divine, 
operative  through  insight,  genius,  inspiration,  and 
consecrated  by  the  minstrel's  faith  in  law  and  his 
sense  of  a  charge  laid  upon  him.  A  concession  from 
the  original  scheme  appears  in  the  briefness  of  the 
section  devoted  to  passion,  under  which  title  a  poet's 
emotion  should  receive  the  same  attention  elsewhere 
given  to  his  taste,  sincerity,  and  imaginative  power. 
My  limits  compelled  me  to  speak  of  passion  at  the 
opening  of  the  final  lecture,  where  it  does  not  pre- 
cisely belong,  though  a  necessary  excitant  of  "the 
faculty  divine." 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

Modern  writers  upon  poetry  as  an  art  occupy 
themselves,  as  I  have  hinted,  very  closely  with  tech- 
nical matters,  —  with  "the  science  of  verse,"  its 
rhythm,  diction,  and  metrical  effects.  But  these  are 
matters  of  course  for  natural  poets,  each  after  his 
own  voice  and  individuality,  and  technical  instruc- 
tion is  obtained  by  them  otherwise  than  through  the 
schooling  which  fortifies  the  practitioners  of  arts 
which  return  subsistence  as  well  as  fame.  Con- 
tenting myself  with  assuming  the  need  of  artistic 
perfection,  I  turn  to  weightier  matters  of  the  law, 
there  being  no  true  science  of  poetry  which  does  not 
seek  after  the  abstract  elements  of  its  power.  Nor 
can  any  work  henceforth  be  an  addition  to  the  liter- 
ature of  the  subject,  which  fails  to  recognize  the  obli- 
gation of  treating  it  upon  scientific  lines.  For  no  one 
now  feels  the  steadfast  energy  of  science  more  than 
do  the  poets  themselves,  and  they  realize  that,  if  at 
first  it  caused  a  disenchantment,  it  now  gives  promise 
of  an  avatar.  The  readjustment,  in  truth,  is  so 
thoroughly  in  force  that  a  critic  moves  with  it  in- 
stinctively. If  there  is  anything  novel  in  this  trea- 
tise, —  anything  like  construction,  —  it  is  the  result 
of  an  impulse  to  confront  the  scientific  nature  and 
methods  of  the  thing  discussed.  Reflecting  upon 
its  historic  and  continuous  potency  in  many  phases 
of  life,  upon  its  office  as  a  vehicle  of  spiritual  expres- 


Xiv  INTRODUCTION 

sion,  I  have  seen  that  it  is  only  a  specific  manifesta- 
tion of  that  all-pervading  force,  of  which  each  one 
possesses  a  share  at  his  control,  and  which  communi- 
cates the  feeling  and  thought  of  the  human  soul  to 
its  fellows.  Thus  I  am  moved  to  perceive  that  for 
its  activity  it  depends,  like  all  other  arts,  upon  Vibra- 
tions,—  upon  ethereal  waves  conveying  impressions 
of  vision  and  sound  to  mortal  senses,  and  so  to  the 
immortal  consciousness  whereto  those  senses  min- 
ister. 

In  my  opening  lecture,  I  see  that  mention  is  made 
of  the  disenchantment  to  which  "  that  airy  nothing, 
the  rainbow,"  has  been  subjected.  But  it  is  pre- 
cisely because  we  have  discovered  its  nothingness,  — 
because  we  know  its  only  being  consists  in  vibra- 
tions which  impart  our  sense  of  light,  and  of  the 
color  scale  —  that  Lippman  has  been  able  at  last  to 
seize  this  color  scale,  and  to  fix  the  negative  re- 
flecting the  light  of  the  eye,  the  flush  of  the  che*ek, 
to  make  the  sunset  eternal,  to  secure  the  myriad 
tints  of  landscape,  —  in  short,  to  make  a  final  con- 
quest of  nature,  and  thus  to*  enlarge  our  basis  for  the 
indispensable  higher  structures  of  the  painter  and 
the  poet.  Such  realism  cannot  be  ignored.  It  does 
not  lessen  ideality  ;  it  affords  new  inspiration. 
Each  time  when  science  fulfils  our  hope,  the  poet 
will  be  charmed  to  dream  anew,  and  to  impart  from 


INTRODUCTION  xv 


his  own  nature  to  the  semblance  of  his  visions  that 
individuality  of  tone  and  form  which  is  the  ultimate 
value  of  human  art. 

I  have  avoided  much  discussion  of  schools  and 
fashions.  Every  race  has  its  own  genius,  as  we  say ; 
every  period  has  its  own  vogues  in  the  higher  arts, 
as  well  as  in  those  which  fashion  wholly  dominates. 
There  have  been  "  schools  "  in  all  ages  and  centres, 
but  these,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  figure  most 
laboriously  at  intervals  when  the  creative  faculty 
seems  inactive.  The  young  and  ardent, — so  long 
as  art  has  her  knight-errantry,  so  long  as  there  is  a 
brotherhood  of  youth  and  hope,  —  will  set  out  joy- 
ously upon  their  new  crusades.  Sometimes  these 
are  effective,  as  in  the  Romantic  movement  of  1830; 
but  more  often,  as  when  observing  the  neo-roman- 
ticists  and  neo  -  impressionists,  the  French  and  Bel- 
gian "symbolists,"  and  just  now  the  " intuitivists," 
we  are  taught  that,  no  matter  how  we  reconstruct 
the  altars  or  pile  cassia  and  frankincense  upon  them, 
there  will  be  no  mystic  illumination  unless  a  flame 
descends  from  above.  New  styles  are  welcome, 
but  it  is  a  grievous  error  to  believe  a  new  style 
the  one  thing  needful,  or  that  art  can  forego  a  good 
one,  old  or  new.  Our  inquiry,  then,  is  concerned 
with  that  which  never  ages,  the  primal  nature  of  the 
minstrel's  art.  Even  sturdy  thinkers  fall  into  the 


XVI  INTRODUCTION 

mistake  of  believing  that  a  great  work  loses  its  power 
as  time  goes  on.  Thus  Shakespeare's  creations  have 
been  pronounced  outworn,  because  he  was  the  last 
great  "poet  of  feudalism."  We  might  as  well  say 
that  the  truth  to  human  life  displayed  in  Genesis 
and  Exodus,  or  the  synthetic  beauty  of  the  Parthe- 
non, or  the  glory  of  the  Sistine  Madonna,  will  grow 
ineffective,  forgetting  that  these  have  the  vitality 
which  appertains  to  the  lasting  nature  of  things. 
No  poet  can  ever  outrival  Shakespeare,  except  by  a 
more  exceeding  insight  and  utterance.  It  is  well 
said  that  great  art  is  always  modern,  and  this  is  true 
whether  a  romantic  or  a  realistic  method  prevails. 
Doubtless  the  prerogative  of  song  is  a  certain  aban- 
donment to  the  ideal,  but  this,  on  the  other  hand, 
becomes  foolishness  unless  the  real,  the  truth  of 
earth  and  nature,  is  kept  somewhere  in  view.  Still, 
if  any  artist  may  be  expected  to  pursue  by  instinct  a 
romantic  method,  it  is  the  poet,  the  very  essence  of 
whose  gift  is  a  sane  ideality.  The  arbitrary  struc- 
ture of  poetry  invites  us  to  a  region  out  of  the  com- 
mon, and  this  without  danger  of  certain  perils  at- 
tending the  flights  of  prose  romance. 

While  the  poetic  drama,  for  example,  must  be  real- 
istic in  its  truth  to  life,  —  first,  as  to  human  nature, 
and,  second,  in  fidelity  to  the  manners  of  a  given 
time  and  place,  —  it  shortly  fails  unless  surcharged 


INTRODUCTION  XVll 

with  romantic  passion  and  ideality.  The  drama, 
then,  ever  catholic  and  universal,  is  a  standing  crit- 
icism upon  the  war  of  schools,  —  a  war  usually  fore- 
gone whenever  the  drama  reaches  and  maintains  a 
successful  height.  I  have  suggested  heretofore  the 
probability  that  dramatic  feeling,  and  even  the  pro- 
duction of  works  in  dramatic  form,  will  distinguish 
the  next  poetic  movement  of  our  own  language  and 
haply  of  this  Western  world. 

But  criticism  of  style  and  method  should  be  ex- 
tended to  specific  productions,  and  to  the  writers  of 
a  certain  period  or  literature.  To  the  essays  which 
in  that  wise  have  come  from  my  own  hand  this  trea- 
tise is  a  natural  complement.  If  inconsistent  with 
them,  —  if  this  statement  of  first  principles  could  not 
be  made  up  from  my  books  of  "  applied  criticism,"  I 
would  doubt  the  integrity  of  the  one  and  the  other ; 
for  I  have  found,  in  preparing  the  marginal  notes 
and  topical  index  of  the  present  volume,  that  nearly 
every  phase  and  constituent  of  art  has  been  touched 
upon,  however  briefly,  which  was  illustrated  in  the 
analytic  course  of  my  former  essays. 

E.  C.  S. 
NEW  YORK,  August,  1892. 


CONTENTS 


I 

ORACLES  OLD  AND  NEW 3 

II 
WHAT  is  POETRY?     ........    41 

III 

CREATION  AND  SELF-EXPRESSION 75 

IV 
MELANCHOLIA in 

V 
BEAUTY 147 


xx  •  CONTENTS 


VI 
TRUTH 187 

VII 
IMAGINATION       . 225 

VIII 

THE   FACULTY    DIVINE:    PASSION,    INSIGHT,    GENIUS, 
FAITH 259 

INDEX 301 


THE  NATURE  AND  ELEMENTS 
OF  POETRY 


THE   NATURE  AND  ELEMENTS   OF 
POETRY 


I. 

ORACLES   OLD  AND   NEW. 

POETRY  of  late  has  been  termed  a  force,  or  mode 
of  force,  very  much  as  if  it  were  the  heat,  «xhe  force  of 

...  .  .  ,  heaven-bred 

or  light,  or  motion  known  to  physics,  poesy." 
And,  in  truth,  ages  before  our  era  of  scientific  reduc- 
tions, the  energia  —  the  vital  energy  —  of  the  min- 
strel's song  was  undisputed.  It  seems  to  me,  in 
spite  of  all  we  hear  about  materialism,  that  the  sen- 
timent imparting  this  energy  —  the  poetic  impulse, 
at  least  —  has  seldom  been  more  forceful  than  at 
this  moment  and  in  this  very  place. 

Our  American  establishments — our  halls  of  learn- 
ing and  beauty  and  worship  —  are  founded,  as  you 
know,  for  the  most  part  not  by  governmental  edict ; 
they  usually  take  their  being  from  the  sentiment, 
the  ideal  impulses,  of  individuals.  Your  own  insti- 
tute,1 still  mewing  like  Milton's  eagle  its  mighty 
youth,  owes  its  existence  to  an  ideal  sentiment,  to  a 

1  Johns  Hopkins  University. 


ORACLES  OLD  AND  NEW 


most  sane  poetic  impulse,  in  the  spirit  of  its  founder, 
devoted  though  he  was,  through  a  long  and  sturdy 
lifetime,  to  material  pursuits.  Its  growth  must 
largely  depend  on  the  awakening  from  time  to  time, 
in  other  generous  spirits,  of  a  like  energy,  a  simi- 
larly constructive  imagination. 

Amongst  all  gracious  evidences  of  this  ideality 
The  Percy  tnus  far  calendared,  I  think  of  few  more 
Memorial  noteworthy,  of  none  more  beautiful,  than 
*  lp'  those  to  which  we  owe  the  first  endowed 
lectureship  of  poetry  in  the  United  States ;  the 
second  foundation  strictly  of  its  kind,  if  I  mistake 
not,  throughout  the  universities  of  the  English- 
speaking  world. 

Whenever  a  university  foundation  is  established 
for  the  study  of  elemental  matters,  —  of  scientific 
truth  or  human  ideality,  — we  return  to  motives  from 
which  the  antique  and  the  mediaeval  schools  chiefly 
derived  their  impulse,  if  not  their  constitution.  The 
founders  would  restore  a  balance  between  the  arbi- 
trary and  the  fundamental  mode  of  education.  The 
resulting  gain  is  not  the  overflow  of  collegiate  re- 
sources, not  the  luxury  of  learning  ;  not  decoration, 
us  fine  sig-  but  enhanced  construction.  We  have  a 
fresh  search  after  the  inmost  truth  of 
things,  the  verities  of  which  the  Anglo-Florentine 
songstress  was  mindful  when  she  averred  that  poets 
are  your  only  truth-tellers  ;  of  which,  also,  Lowell,  in 
his  soliloquy  of  "  Columbus,"  was  profoundly  con- 
scious when  he  made  the  discoverer  say  :  — 


THE  HIGHER  EDUCATION 


"  For  I  believed  the  poets ;  it  is  they 
Who  utter  wisdom  from  the  central  deep, 
And,  listening  to  the  inner  flow  of  things, 
Speak  to  the  age  out  of  eternity." 

Within  these  verities  new  estates  originate ;  more- 
over, they  perpetually  advance  the  knowledge  and 
methods  of  the  time-honored  professions.  The 
present  and  future  influences  of  a  school  Thespirit 
are  more  assured  when  it  enters  their  givethufe- 
realm.  If  I  did  not  believe  this  with  my  noonday 
reason  and  common  sense,  it  would  be  an  imposture 
for  me  to  discourse  to  you  upon  our  theme.  The 
sovereign  of  the  arts  is  the  imagination,  by  whose 
aid  man  makes  every  leap  forward  ;  and  emotion  is 
its  twin,  through  which  come  all  fine  experiences, 
and  all  great  deeds  are  achieved.  Man,  after  all,  is 
placed  here  to  live  his  life.  Youth  demands  its  share 
in  every  study  that  can  engender  a  power  or  a  de- 
light. Universities  must  enhance  the  use,  the  joy, 
the  worth  of  existence.  They  are  institutions  both 
human  and  humane :  not  inevitable,  except  in  so  far 
as  they  become  schools  for  man's  advancement  and 
for  the  conduct  of  life. 

'We  now  have  to  do  with  the  most  ideal  and  com- 
prehensive of  those  arts  which  intensify  life  and  sug- 
gest life's  highest  possibilities.  The  name  of  poetry, 
like  that  of  gentleman,  is  "soiled  with  all  ignoble 
use ; "  but  that  is  because  its  province  is  universal, 
and  its  government  a  republic,  whose  right  of  fran- 
chise any  one  can  exercise  without  distinction  of  age, 


ORACLES  OLD  AND  NEW 


sex,  color,  or  (more 's  the  pity)  of  morals,  brains,  or 
birthright.  The  more  honor,  then,  to  the  founders 
of  this  lectureship,  whose  recognition  of  poetry  at 
its  highest  is  not  disturbed  by  its  abuse,  and  whose 
munificence  erects  for  it  a  stately  seat  among  its 
peers. 

Under  the  present  auspices,  our  own  approach  can 
Design  of  scarcely  be  too  sympathetic,  yet  none  the 
this  treatise.  jess  free  o£  juusjon  an(j  alert  with  a  sense 

of  realities.  We  may  well  be  satisfied  to  seek  for 
the  mere  ground-plot  of  this  foundation.  I  am  priv- 
ileged, indeed,  if  I  can  suggest  a  tentative  design  for 
the  substructure  upon  which  others  are  to  build 
and  decorate  throughout  the  future  of  your  school. 
Poetry  is  not  a  science,  yet  a  scientific  comprehen- 
sion of  any  art  is  possible  and  essential.  Unless  we 
come  to  certain  terms  at  the  outset,  if  only  to  facil- 
itate this  course,  we  shall  not  get  on  at  all. 

ENTER  the  studio  of  an  approved  sculptor,  a  man 
Tot  artes  °^  genms,  and,  if  you  choose,  poetic  ideal- 

tantsscienti*.     ity         Re    is    intent    upQn    t^Q    mo^Q\     of     a 

human  figure,  a  statue  to  be  costumed  in  garments 
that  shall  both  conceal  and  express  the  human  form. 
Plainly  he  has  in  his  mind's  eye  the  outside,  the  ul- 
timate appearance,  of  his  subject.  He  is  not  con- 
structing a  manikin,  a  curious  bit  of  mechanism  that 
imitates  the  interior  —  the  bones,  muscles,  arteries, 
nerves  —  of  the  body.  He  is  fashioning  the  man  as 
he  appears  to  us,  giving  his  image  the  air,  the  expres- 


SUBSTRUCTURAL  LAW 


sion,  of  life  in  action  or  repose.  But  you  will  per- 
ceive that  even  the  rude  joinery  on  which  he  casts 
his  first  clay  is  a  structure  suggesting  a  man's  inte- 
rior framework.  Ere  long  the  skeleton  is  built 
upon ;  the  nude  and  very  man  is  modeled  roughly, 
yet  complete,  so  that  his  anatomy  shall  give  the 
truth,  and  not  a  lie,  to  the  finished  work.  Not  until 
this  has  been  done  will  the  sculptor  superadd  the 
drapery  —  the  costume  which,  be  it  the  symbol  of 
our  fall  or  of  our  advancement,  distinguishes  civil- 
ized man  from  the  lower  animals.  At  all  events,  it 
is  a  serious  risk  for  the  young  artist  to  forego  this 
progressive  craftsmanship.  Even  a  painter  will 
rudely  outline  his  figures  according  to  primitive  na- 
ture before  giving  them  the  clothing,  which,  how- 
ever full  of  grace  and  meaning,  is  not  themselves. 
Otherwise  he  will  be  a  painter  of  dead  garments,  not 
of  soul-possessing  men  and  women.  An  artist  of 
learning  and  experience  may  overleap  this  process, 
but  only  because  his  hand  has  become  the  trained 
slave  of  his  creative  vision,  which  sees  clearly  all 
that  can  lie  beneath. 

To  the  anatomic  laws,  then,  of  the  human  form 
the  sculptor's  and  the  figure-painter's  arts  Preessemiais. 
are  subservient.  The  laws  of.  every  art  are  just  as 
determinate,  even  those  pertaining  to  the  evasive, 
yet  all-embracing  art  of  poesy,  whose  spirit  calls 
other  arts  to  its  aid  and  will  imitate  them,  as  art  it- 
self imitates  nature ;  which  has,  in  truth,  its  specific 
method  and  also  the  reflex  of  all  other  methods.  I 


8  ORACLES  OLD  AND  NEW 

do  not  speak  of  the  science,  even  of  the  art,  of  verse. 
Yet  to  know  the  spirit  of  poetry  we  must  observe, 
with  the  temper  of  philosophers,  its  preessentials  in 
the  concrete.  Even  its  form  and  its  method  of  work 
must  be  recognized  as  things  of  dignity :  the  mate- 
rial symbols  and  counterparts,  as  in  Swedenborg's 
cosmos,  of  the  spirit  which  is  reality. 

And  thus,  I  say,  we  must  obtain  at  least  a  service- 
able definition  of  the  word  poetry  for  our 

A  working  J 

basis  needed;  present  use.  In  beginning  this  course,  it 
is  well  to  let  the  mists  rise,  at  least  to  have  none  of 
our  own  brewing.  The  sentimentalists  invariably 
have  befogged  our  topic.  I  ask  you  to  divest  your 
minds,  for  the  moment,  of  sentimentalism,  even  of 
sentiment,  and  to  assume,  in  Taine's  phrase,  that  we 
are  to  begin  by  realizing  "not  an  ode,  but  a  law." 
Applied  criticism  —  that  which  regards  specific  po- 
ets and  poems  —  is  a  subsequent  affair.  Let  us  seek 
the  generic  elements  that  are  to  govern  criticism  by 
discovering  and  applying  its  standards.  If  you  ask, 
To  what  end  ?  I  reply,  That  we  may  avoid  dilettante- 
ism.  We  are  not  a  group  of  working  artists,  but 
they  possess  something  we  can  share  ;  to  wit,  the 
sincere  and  even  ascetic  mood  that  wishes  no  illu- 
sions and  demands  a  working  basis.  But  again,  to 
but  not  for  the  what  purpose  ?  Surely  not  for  the  devel- 

promotion  of  .  t       f     *  /~i  •  i  i 

versifying.  opment  of  a.  breed  of  poets  !  Consider  the 
tenuous  voices  of  minnesingers  far  and  near,  whose 
music  rises  like  the  chirping  of  locusts  by  noonday 
and  of  meadow-frogs  at  night.  Each  has  his  fault- 


THE  POET  AND  HIS   TEACHERS  9 

less  little  note,  and  while  the  seasonable  chorus 
blends,  it  is  humored  by  some  and  endured  by  most, 
quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  the  world  goes  on 
as  usual.  Human  suffering  may  have  been  greater 
when  the  rhapsodist  flourished  and  printing  was  un- 
known, when  one  was  waylaid  at  the  corners  of  the 
market-place,  and  there  was  no  escape  but  in  flight 
or  assassination.  And  if  our  object  were  to  train 
poets,  and  a  past-master  were  on  the  rostrum,  his 
teachings  would  be  futile  unless  nature  reasserted 
her  averages.  Fourier  accounted  for  one  poet  in  his 
phalanstery  of  a  thousand  souls ;  yet  a  shrewder  es- 
timate would  allow  but  one  memorable  poet  to  a 
thousand  phalansteries,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  even 
nature  suspends  her  rules  in  countenance  of  youth's 
prerogative,  and  unfailingly  supplies  a  laureate  for 
every  college  class.  With  respect  to  training,  the 
catalogues  term  a  painter  the  pupil  of  Bonnat,  of 
Duran,  of  Cabanel ;  a  musician,  pupil  of  Rubinstein 
or  Liszt.  But  the  poet  studies  in  his  own  Nature  both 

T  T      •  ii-  •  makes  and 

atelier.     He  is  not  made,  his  poetry  is  not  trains  a  poet, 
made,  by  a  priori  rules,  any  more  than  a  language  is 
made  by  the  grammarians  and  philologists,  whose 
true  function  is  simply  to  report  it. 

Yet  even  the  poet  has  his  teachers  :  first  of  all, 
since  poetry  is  vocal,  those  from  whom  he  learns  the 
speech  wherewith  he  lisps  in  numbers.  In  the  nur- 
sery, or  on  the  playground,  he  is  as  much  at  school 
as  any  young  artist  taking  his  initial  lessons  in  the 
drawing-class,  or  a  young  singer  put  to  his  first  exer- 


10  ORACLES  OLD  AND  NEW 

cises.  Later  on,  he  surely  finds  his  way  to  the  higher 
gymnasium  ;  he  reads  with  wonder  and  assimilation 
the  books  of  the  poets.  Thus  not  only  his  early 
methods,  but  his  life-long  expression,  his  vocabulary, 
his  confines  and  liberties,  will  depend  much  upon 
early  associations,  and  upon  the  qualities  of  the  mod- 
els which  chance  sets  within  his  way.  As  to  techni- 
cal ability,  what  he  seeks  to  acquire  after  the  forma- 
tive period  relatively  counts  for  little ;  his  gain  must 
come,  and  by  a  noble  paradox,  from  learning  to 
unlearn,  from  self-development ;  otherwise  his  utter- 
ance will  never  be  a  force.  One  poet's  early  song, 
for  example,  has  closely  echoed  Keats ;  another's, 
Tennyson ;  afterward,  each  has  given  us  a  motive 
and  a  method  of  his  own,  yet  he  was  first  as  much  a 
pupil  of  an  admirable  teacher  as  those  widely  differ- 
ing artists,  Couture  and  Millet,  were  pupils  of  De- 
laroche.  Still  another  began  with  the  Italian  poets, 
and  this  by  a  fortunate  chance,  —  or  rather,  let  us 
say,  by  that  mysterious  law  which  decrees  that 
genius  shall  find  its  own  natural  sustenance.  In 
time  he  developed  his  own  artistic  and  highly  origi- 
nal note,  with  a  spirituality  confirmed  by  that  early 
pupilage. 

I  assume,  then,  that  the  poet's  technical  modes, 
even  the  general  structure  of  a  masterwork,  come  by 
intuition,  environment,  reading,  experience  ;  and  that 
The  natural  to°  studious  consideration  of  them  may 
perchance  retard  him.  I  suspect  that  no 
instinctive  poet  bothers  himself  about  such  matters 


DAME  NATURE'S  SCHOOL  II 

in  advance  ;  he  doubtless  casts  his  work  in  the  form 
and  measures  that  come  with  its  thought  to  him, 
though  he  afterward  may  pick  up  his  dropped  feet 
or  syllables  at  pleasure.  If  he  ponders  on  the  Iam- 
bic Trimeter  Catalectic,  or  any  of  its  kin,  his  case  is 
hopeless.  In  fact,  I  never  have  known  a  natural  poet 
who  did  not  compose  by  ear,  as  we  say :  and  this  is 
no  bad  test  of  spontaneity.  And  as  for  rules,  —  such, 
for  example,  as  the  Greeks  laid  down,  —  their  effi- 
cacy is  fairly  hit  off  in  that  famous  epigram  of  the 
Prince  de  Conde,  when  the  Abb6  d'Aubignac  boasted 
that  he  closely  observed  the  rules  of  Aristotle :  "  I 
do  not  quarrel  with  the  Abbe  d'Aubignac  for  having 
so  closely  followed  the  precepts  of  Aristotle ;  but  I 
cannot  pardon  the  precepts  of  Aristotle  that  occa- 
sioned the  Abbe  d'Aubignac  to  write  so  wretched  a 
tragedy."  We  do  see  that  persons  of  cleverness  and 
taste  learn  to  write  agreeable  verses ;  but  the  one 
receipt  for  making  a  poet  is  in  the  safe-keeping  of 
nature  and  the  foreordaining  stars. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  mature  poet,  and  no  less 
the  lover  of  poetry,  may  profitably  observe  Oneendin 
what  secrets  of  nature  are  applied  to  lyri-  view- 
cal  creation.    The  first  Creator  rested  after  his  work, 
and  saw  that  it  was  good.     It  is  well  for  an  artist  to 
study  the  past,  to  learn  what  can  be  done  and  what 
cannot  be  done  acceptably.    A  humble  music-master 
can  teach  a  genius  not  to  waste  his  time  in  move- 
ments proved  to  be  false.     Much  of  what  is  good  is 
established,  but  the  range  of  the  good  is  infinite; 


12  ORACLES  OLD  AND  NEW 

that  which  is  bad  is  easily  known.  If  there  be  a 
mute  and  to-be-glorious  Milton  here,  so  much  the 
better.  And  for  all  of  us,  I  should  think,  there  can 
be  no  choicer  quest,  and  none  more  refining,  than, 
with  the  Muse  before  us,  to  seek  the  very  well-spring 
and  to  discover  the  processes  of  her  "  wisdom  mar- 
ried to  immortal  verse." 

We  owe  to  the  artist's  feeling  that  his  gift  is  in- 
Artistic  nate,  and  that  it  does  produce  "  an  illusion 

on  the  eye  of  the  mind  "  which,  he  fears, 
too  curious  analysis  may  dispel :  to  this  we  doubt- 
less owe  his  general  reluctance  to  talk  with  definite- 
ness  concerning  his  art.  Often  you  may  as  well  ask 
a  Turk  after  his  family,  or  a  Hindu  priest  concern- 
ing his  inner  shrine.  I  have  put  to  several  minstrels 
the  direct  question,  "What  is  poetry?"  without  ob- 
taining a  categorical  reply.  One  of  them,  indeed, 
said,  "I  can't  tell  you  just  now,  but  if  you  need  a 
first-class  example  of  it,  I  '11  refer  you  to  my  volume 
of  '  Lyrics  and  Madrigals.'  "  But  when  they  do  give 
us  chips  from  their  workshop,  —  the  table-talk  of 
poets,  the  stray  sentences  in  their  letters,  —  these, 
like  the  studio-hints  of  masters,  are  both  curt  and 
precious,  and  emphatically  refute  Macaulay's  state- 
ment that  good  poets  are  bad  critics.  They  incline 
us  rather  to  believe  with  Shenstone  that  "every 
good  poet  includes  a  critic;  the  reverse"  (as  he 
added)  "will  not  hold." 

Even  a  layman  shares  the   artist's  hesitation  to 


WHY  ANSWER  IS  EVADED  13 

discourse  upon  that  which  pertains  to  human  emo- 
tion. Because  sensation  and  its  causes  are  univer- 
sal, the  feeling  that  creates  poetry  for  an  expression, 
and  the  expression  itself,  in  turn  exciting  feeling  in 
the  listener,  are  factors  which  we  shrink  from  redu- 
cing to  terms.  An  instinctive  delicacy  is  founded  in 
nature.  To  overcome  it  is  like  laying  hands  upon 
the  sacred  ark.  One  must  be  assured  that  this  is 
done  on  the  right  occasion,  and  that,  at  least  for  the 
moment,  he  has  a  special  dispensation.  A  false 
handling  cheapens  the  value  of  an  art  —  puts  out  of 
sight,  with  the  banishment  of  its  reserve,  what  it 
might  be  worth  to  us.  All  have  access  to  Theheritage 
the  universal  elements;  they  cost  nothing,  ofa11' 
are  at  the  public  service,  and  even  children  and  wit- 
lings can  toy  with  and  dabble  in  them.  So  it  is  with 
music,  poetry,  and  other  general  expressions  of  feel- 
ing. Most  people  can  sing  a  little,  any  boy  can 
whistle  —  and  latterly,  I  believe,  any  girl  who  would 
defy  augury,  and  be  in  the  fashion.  Three  fourths 
of  the  minor  verse  afloat  in  periodicals  or  issued  in 
pretty  volumes  corresponds  to  the  poetry  of  high 
feeling  and  imagination  somewhat  as  a  boy's  whis- 
tling to  a  ravishing  cavatina  on  the  Boehm  flute.  As 
a  further  instance,  a  knack  of  modelling  comes  by 
nature.  If  sculptor's  clay  were  in  every  road-bank, 
and  casts  from  the  antique  as  common  as  school 
readers  and  printed  books  of  the  poets,  we  probably 
should  have  reputed  Michelangelos  and  Canovas  in 
every  village  instead  of  here  and  there  a  Ward,  a  St. 
Gaudens,  or  a  Donoghue. 


14  ORACLES  OLD  AND  NEW 

But  it  is  precisely  the  arts  in  which  anybody  can 
the  crown  of  dabble  that  the  elect  raise  to  heights  of 
dignity  and  beauty.  Those  who  realize 
this  indulge  a  pardonable  foible  if  they  desire  to 
reserve,  like  the  Egyptian  priests,  certain  mysteries, 
if  only  pro  magnifico.  Besides,  there  are  ^periods 
when  the  utility  of  artistic  analysis  is  not  readily 
accepted  by  those  who  make  opinion.  Economics 
and  sociology,  for  example,  largely  absorb  the  in- 
terest of  one  of  our  most  scholarly  journals.  Its 
literary  and  art  columns  are  ably  conducted.  The 
A  traditional  chief  editor,  however,  told  me  that  he 

undervalua-  ,  , .      ,  ..  ,          . 

tion.  knew  little   of    aesthetics,  and    cared   to 

know  less  ;  and  in  such  a  way  as  to  warrant  an  in- 
ference that,  though  well  disposed,  he  looked  upon 
art  and  song  and  poetry  very  much  as  Black  Both- 
well  regarded  clerkly  pursuits,  —  that  they  were  to 
him  what  Italian  music  seemed  to  Dr.  Johnson,  in 
whose  honest  eyes  its  practitioners  were  but  fiddlers 
and  dancing-masters.  This  undervaluation  by  a  very 
clever  man  is  partly  caused,  if  not  justified,  one 
must  believe,  by  the  vulgarization  of  the  arts  of 
beauty  and  design.  Yet  these  arts  belong  as  much 
to  the  order  of  things,  and  indirectly  make  as  much 
for  wealth,  as  the  science  of  economics,  and  they 
make  as  much  for  social  happiness  as  the  science  of 
sociology,  —  if,  indeed,  they  are  to  be  excluded  from 
either. 

Can  we,  even  here,  take  up  poetry  as  a  botanist 


JS  ANSWER  POSSIBLE f  15 

takes  up  a  flower,  and  analyze  its  components  ?  Can 
we  make  visible  the  ichor  of  its  proto-  can  poetry  be 
plasm,  and  recognize  a  something  that 
imparts  to  it  transcendency,  the  spirit  of  the  poet 
within  his  uttered  work  ?  Why  has  the  question 
before  us  been  so  difficult  to  answer  ?  Simply  be- 
cause it  relates  to  that  which  is  at  once  inclusive 
and  evasive.  There  is  no  doubt  what  sculpture  and 
painting  and  music  and  architecture  seem  to  be  ; 
the  statements  of  critics  may  differ,  but  the  work 
is  visible  and  understood.  Do  you  say  with  the 
philosophers  that  poetry  is  a  sensation,  that  its  qual- 
ity lies  in  the  mind  of  the  recipient,  and  hence  is 
indefinite  ?  The  assertion  applies  no  less  to  the 
plastic  arts  and  to  music,  yet  the  things  by  which 
those  excite  our  sensations  are  well  denned,  and 
what  I  seek  is  the  analogous  definition  of  the  spoken 
art.  It  has  been  said  that  "  one  element  must  for- 
ever elude  researches,  and  that  is  the  very  element 
by  which  poetry  is  poetry."  I  confess  we  cannot 
define  the  specific  perfume  of  a  flower  ;  but  there  is 
a  logical  probability  that  this  conveys  itself  alike  to 
all  of  us,  that  the  race  is  as  but  one  soul  in  receiving 
the  impression.  I  think  we  can  seize  upon  all  other 
conditions  that  make  a  flower  a  flower  or  a  poem  a 
poem. 

Edgar   Poe   avowed   his   belief  in   the   power  of 
words   to   express   all   human   ideas,  —  a  whether  ian- 
belief  entertained  by  Joubert  also.     Nor  quate. 
have  I  any  doubt  that  for  every  clear  thought,  even 


1 6  ORACLES  OLD  AND  NEW 

for  every  emotion,  words  have  been,  or  can  be, 
found,  as  surely  as  there  is  a  conquest  of  matter  by 
the  spirit  ;  that  speech,  the  soul's  utterance,  shares 
the  subtilties  of  its  master.  Where  it  seems  to  fail, 
the  fault  is  in  the  speaker.  As  a  race  goes  on,  both 
its  conceptions  and  its  emotions  are  clearer  and 
richer,  and  language  keeps  pace  with  them.  The 
time  may  come,  indeed,  when  thought  will  not  be 
"deeper  than  all  speech,"  nor  "feeling  deeper  than 
all  thought."  If  we  still  lag  in  emotional  expres- 
sion, we  can  excite  feelings  similar  to  our  own  by 
the  spells  of  art.  I  do  not  see  why  the  primary  ele- 
ments of  poetry  in  the  concrete  should  not  be  stated 
without  sophistication,  and  as  clearly  as  those  of 
painting,  music,  or  architecture.  They  have,  in  fact, 
Oracles,  old  been  stated  fragmentarily  by  one  and  an- 
other poet  and  thinker,  most  of  whom 
agree  on  certain  points.  True  criticism  does  not 
discredit  old  discovery  in  its  quest  for  something 
more.  Its  office,  as  Mill  says  of  philosophy,  is  not 
to  set  aside  old  definitions,  but  it  "  corrects  and  regu- 
lates them."  It  does  not  differ  for  the  sake  of  nov- 
elty, but  formulates  what  is,  and  shall  be,  of  melody 
and  thought  and  feeling,  and  what  no  less  has  been 
since  first  the  morning  stars  sang  together.  I  must 
ask  you,  then,  to  permit  me,  in  this  opening  lecture, 
very  swiftly  to  review  familiar  and  historic  utter- 
ances, from  which  we  may  combine  principles  emi- 
nently established,  and,  if  need  be,  to  add  some 
newly  stated  factor,  in  our  subsequent  effort  to  for- 


ARISTOTELIANISM  1? 

mulate  a  definition  of  poetry  that  shall  be  scientifi- 
cally clear  and  comprehensive,  and  also  to  establish 
limits  beyond  which  speculation  is  foreign  to  the 
design  of  this  lecture-course. 

Various  poets  and  thinkers,  each  after  his  kind, 
have  contributed  to  such  a  definition.     I  The  antique 

.  ,  or  classical 

have  mentioned  Aristotle.  He  at  least  idea. 
applied  to  the  subject  a  cool  and  level  intellect ;  and 
his  formula,  to  which  in  certain  essentials  all  must 
pay  respect,  is  an  ultimate  deduction  from  the  an- 
tique. It  fails  of  his  master  Plato's  spirituality,  but 
excels  in  precision.  Aristotle  regards  FromAristo. 
poetry  as  a  structure  whose  office  is  imi-  tle  to  Goethe- 
tation  through  imagery,  and  its  end  delight,  —  the 
latter  caused  not  by  the  imitation,  but  through 
workmanship,  harmony,  and  rhythm.  The  histo- 
rian shows  what  has  happened,  the  poet  such  things 
as  might  have  been,  devoted  to  universal  truth 
rather  than  to  particulars.  The  poet  —  the  iron/rr;? 
—  is,  of  course,  a  maker,  and  his  task  is  invention. 
Finally,  he  must  feel  strongly  what  he  writes. 
Here  we  have  the  classical  view.  The  Greeks, 
looking  upon  poetry  as  a  fine  art,  had  no  hesitation 
in  giving  it  outline  and  law. 

Naturally  an  artist  like  Horace  assented  to  this 

conception.     Within  his  range  there  is  no   Horace,  Dry- 
den,  and 

more  enduring  poet ;  yet  he  excludes  him-  °thers- 
self  from  the  title,  and  this  because  of  the  very  ele- 
ments  which   make   him   so   modern,  —  his   lyrical 


1 8  ORACLES  OLD  AND  NEW 

grace  and  personal  note.  With  Aristotle,  he 
yielded  the  laurel  solely  to  heroic  dramatists  and 
epic  bards.  His  example  is  followed  by  our  brave 
old  Chapman,  Homer's  bold  translator,  who  de- 
clares that  the  energia  of  poets  lies  in  "  high  and 
hearty  Invention."  Dryden  also  accepts  the  canon 
of  Imitation,  but  avows  that  "  Imaging  is,  in  itself, 
the  height  and  life  of-  it,"  and  cites  Longinus,  for 
whom  poetry  was  "  a  discourse  which,  by  a  kind  of 
enthusiasm,  or  extraordinary  emotion  of  the  soul, 
makes  it  seem  to  us  that  we  behold  those  things 
which  the  poet  paints."  Landor,  the  modern  Greek, 
whose  art  was  his  religion,  repeats  that  "all  the 
imitative  arts  have  delight  for  their  principal  ob- 
ject ;  the  first  of  these  is  poetry ;  the  highest  of 
AS  an  an  poetry  is  the  tragic."  But  recognition 
of  only  the  structure  of  verse,  without  its 
soul,  deadened  the  poetry  of  France  in  her  pseudo- 
classical  period,  from  Boileau  to  Hugo,  so  that  it 
could  be  declared,  as  late  as  A.  D.  1838,  that  "  in 
French  literature  that  part  is  most  poetry  which  is 
written  in  prose."  Even  the  universal  Goethe  re- 
pressed his  "  noble  rage  "  by  the  conception  of 
poetry  as  an  art  alone,  so  that  Heine,  a  pagan  of  the 
lyrical  rather  than  of  the  inventive  cast,  said  that 
this  was  the  reason  why  Goethe's  work  did  not, 
like  the  lesser  but  more  human  Schiller's,  "  beget 
deeds."  "This  is  the  curse,"  he  declared,  "of  all 
that  has  originated  in  mere  art."  Like  Pygmalion 
and  the  statue,  "his  kisses  warmed  her  into  life, 


SONG  AND  EMOTION  19 

but,  so  far  as  we  know,  she  never  bore  children."  1 
Goethe's  pupil,  the  young  Matthew  Arnold,  ac- 
cepted without  reserve  the  antique  notion  of  poetry. 
"Actions,  human  actions,"  he  cried,  "are  the  eter- 
nal objects  of  the  muse."  In  after  years,  as  we 
shall  see,  he  formed  a  more  sympathetic  conception. 
Other  poets  have  thrown  different  and  priceless 
alloys  into  the  crucible  from  which  is  to  The  Romantic 
flow  the  metal  of  our  seeking,  adding  fire  aTthe  lyr^ai7 

i  .  rr>i  .  f    expression  of 

and  sweetness  to  its  tone.  I  he  chiefs  of  Emotion, 
the  romantic  movement,  so  near  our  own  time,  be- 
lieved Passion  to  be  the  one  thing  needful.  Byron 
was  its  fervent  exemplar.  In  certain  Byron, 
moods,  it  is  true,  he  affected  to  think  that  he  and 
his  compeers  were  upon  a  wrong  system,  and  he  ex- 
tolled the  genius  and  style  of  Pope.  But  this  was 
after  all  had  got  the  seed  of  his  own  flower.  It  was 
plainly  an  affectation  of  revolt  from  his  own  affec- 
tation, with  haply  some  prophetic  sense  of  natural- 
ism as  a  basis  for  genuine  emotion.  His  summing 
up  is  given  in  "  Don  Juan  "  :  — 

"  Thus  to  their  extreme  verge  the  passions  brought 
Dash  into  poetry,  which  is  but  passion, 
Or  at  least  was  so,  ere  it  grew  a  fashion." 

Moore,  light-weight  as  he  was,  aptly  stated  the 
Byronic  creed :  "  Poetry  ought  only  to  be  employed 
as  an  interpreter  of  feeling."  This  is  certainly 
true,  as  far  as  it  goes,  and  agrees  with  Mill's 

1  But  see  Ovid,  Met.  x.  297 :  — 

"  Ilia  Paphon  genuit,  de  quo  tenet  insula  nomen." 


20  ORACLES  OLD   AND  NEW 

later  but  still  limited  canon,  that  poetry  is  emo- 
Miiiand  tion  expressed  in  lyrical  language.1  But 
Ruskm.  a  compiete  definition  distinguishes  the 
thing  defined  from  everything  else  ;  it  denotes,  as 
you  know,  "  the  species,  the  whole  species,  and  no- 
thing but  the  species."  Bascom  and  Ruskin  follow 
Mill,  but  Ruskin  adds  other  elements,  saying  that 
poetry  is  the  suggestion,  by  the  "imagination,"  of 
noble  "  thoughts  "  for  noble  emotions.  This  does 
not  exclude  painting  and  other  emotional  and  im- 
aginative arts.  In  truth,  he  is  simply  defining  art, 
and  takes  poetry,  as  Plato  might,  as  a  synonym  for 
art  in  all  its  forms  of  expression. 

An  elevated  view,  on  the  whole,  is  gained  by 
imagination,  those  who  recognize  more  sensibly  the 
force  of  Imagination.  Here  the  twin  contemplative 
seers,  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  lift  their  torches, 
dispersing  many  mists.  They  saw  that  poetry  is  not 
opposed  to  prose,  of  which  verse  is  the  true  antithe- 
sis, but  that  in  spirit  and  action  it  is  the  reverse  of 
science  or  matter  of  fact.  Imagination  is  its  pole- 
star,  its  utterance  the  echo  of  man  and  nature.  The 
poet  has  no  restriction  beyond  the  duty  of  giving 
pleasure.  Nothing  else  stands  between  him  and  the 
very  image  of  nature,  from  which  a  hundred  bar- 
riers shut  off  the  biographer  and  historian.  Words- 
The  Lake  worth  admits  the  need  of  emotion,  but  re- 
nounces taste.  Coleridge  plainly  has  the 
instinct  for  beauty  and  the  spell  of  measured  words. 

1  J.  S.  Mill's  Thoughts  on  Poetry  and  its  Varieties,  1833. 


IMA  GIN  A  TION—  PLA  TONISM  2 1 

The  chief  contributions  of  the  Lake  School  to  our 
definition  are  the  recognition  of  the  imagination  and 
the  antithesis  of  science  to  poetry.1  The  pessimist 
Schopenhauer,  who  wrote  like  a  musician  on  music, 
like  a  poet  on  poetry,  yet  with  wholly  impassive 
judgment,  also  avows  that  poetry  is  "the  art  of  ex- 
citing by  words  the  power  of  the  imagination,"  and 
that  it  must  "  show  by  example  what  life  and  the 
world  are." 

From  the  attributes  of  invention,  passion,  and  im- 
agination may  perhaps  be  deduced  what  The  Platonic 
seems   to   others  *the   specific  quality  of  concePtion- 
the  poet,  the  very  quintessence  of  his  gift.     What 
should  I   mean,  save   that   which   Aristotle's   mas- 
ter considered  the  element  productive  of  all  others 
and  a  direct  endowment  from  heaven,  —    inspiration, 
the  Inspiration  governing  creative,  impassioned,  im- 
aginative  art  ?     The   poet's  soul  was,  according  to 
Plato,  in  harmonic  relation  with  the  soul  of  the  uni- 
verse.    It  is  true  that  in  the  "  Republic  "  he  sup- 
plies  Aristotle   with    a   technical   basis  ;  Plat0)in«The 
furthermore,  as  an  idealist  playing  at  gov-  RePubhc-" 
ernment,  he  is  more  sternly  utilitarian  than  even  the 
man  of  affairs.     The  epic  and  dramatic  makers  of 
"  imitative  history  "  are  falsifiers,  dangerous  for  their 
divine  power  of  exciting  the  passions  and  unsettling 
the  minds  of  ordinary  folk.     He  admires  a  poet,  and 
would  even  crown  him,  but  feels  bound  to  escort 

1  Coleridge's  Introductory  Matter  on  Poetry,  the  Drama,  and  the 
Stage ;  Wordsworth's  Prefaces  and  Appendix  to  Lyrical  Ballads,  etc. 


22  ORACLES  OLD  AND  NEW 

him  to  the  side  of  the  ship  Republic  and  to  drop 
him  overboard,  as  the  Quaker  repulsed  the  boarder, 
with  the  remark,  "  Friend,  thee  has  no  business 
here  !  "  But  this  is  Plato  defying  his  natal  goddess 
in  a  passing  ascetic  mood ;  Plato,  in  whose  self  the 
poet  and  philosopher  were  one  indeed,  having  ever 
since  been  trying,  like  the  two  parts  of  his  arche- 
typal man,  to  find  again  so  perfect  a  union.  In  his 
more  general  mood  he  atones  for  such  wantonness, 
reiterating  again  and  again  that  the  poet  is  a  seer, 
possessed  of  all  secrets  and  guided  by  an  inspiring 
spirit  ;  that  without  his  second  sight,  his  interpre- 
tation of  the  divine  ideas  symbolized  by  substance 
and  action,  his  mission  would  be  fruitless. 

Those  who  take  this  higher  view  revere  the  name 
From  piato  to  °f  Plato,  though  sometimes  looking  be- 
yond him  to  the  more  eastern  East, 
whence  such  occult  wisdom  is  believed  to  flow, — 
to  such  sayings  as  that  ascribed  to  Zoroaster,1 
"  Poets  are  standing  transporters  ;  their  employ- 
ment consists  in  speaking  to  the  Father  and  to 
Matter,  in  provoking  apparent  copies  of  unapparent 
natures,  and  thus  inscribing  things  unapparent  in 
the  apparent  fabric  of  the  world." 

Cicero,  deeply  read  in  Plato,  could  not  conceive 
Cicero.  of  a  poet's  producing  verse  of  grand  im- 

port and  perfect  rhythm  without  some  heavenly  in- 
breathing of  the  mind.  The  soul's  highest  preroga- 
tive was  to  contemplate  the  order  of  celestial  things 
1  Cited  by  F.  B.  Sanborn  in  a  paper  on  Emerson. 


THE  POET  AS  A   SEER  23 

and  to  reproduce  it.  Transcendental  thinkers  — 
such  as  Lord  Bacon  in  his  finest  vein  —  recognize 
this  as  its  office.  While  Bacon's  general  Bacon, 
view  of  poetry  is  that  all  "  Feigned  History  "  (as 
he  terms  it),  prose  or  verse,  may  be  so  classed,  he 
says  the  use  of  it  "  hath  been  to  give  some  shadow 
of  satisfaction  to  the  mind  of  man  in  those  points 
wherein  the  nature  of  things  doth  deny  it "  ;  and 
again,  that  it  is  thought  to  "  have  some  participation 
of  divineness  because  it  doth  raise  and  erect  the 
mind,  by  submitting  the  shews  of  things  to  the 
desires  of  the  mind."  Sidney's  flawless  Sidney. 
"  Defense  of  Poesie  " l  exalts  the  prophetic  gift  of 
the  vates  above  all  art  and  invention.  In  our  day 
Carlyle  clung  to  the  supremacy  of  inspiration,  in 
art  no  less  than  in  action.  But  no  one  since  Ploti- 
nus  has  made  it  so  veritably  the  golden  dome  of  the 
temple  as  our  seer  of  seers,  Emerson,  in  whose  be- 
lief the  artist  does  not  create  so  much  as  report. 
The  soul  works  through  him.  "  Poetry  is  the  per- 
petual endeavor  to  express  the  spirit  of  the  thing." 
And  thus  all  the  Concord  group,  notably  The  Concord 
Dr.  W.  T.  Harris,  in  whose  treatises  of  SchooL 
Dante  and  other  poets  the  spiritual  interpreting 

1  Prof.  Albert  S.  Cook,  in  his  edition  of  Sidney's  tractate,  re- 
marks concerning  the  title :  "  The  Defense  was  not  published  till 
1595,  and  then  by  two  different  printers,  Olney  and  Ponsonby.  The 
former  gave  it  the  title,  An  Apologie  for  Poetrie ;  the  latter,  The  De- 
fence of  Poesie.  It  is  doubtful  which  of  these  appeared  the  earlier.  .  .  . 
Sidney  himself  refers  to  the  treatise  as  'a  pitiful  defense  of  poor 
poetry.' " 


24  ORACLES  OLD  AND  NEW 

power  of  the  bard  is  made  preeminent.  The  sub- 
tlest modern  poet  of  life  and  thought,  Browning, 
Browning.  has  left  us  only  one  prose  statement  of 
his  art,  but  that  is  the  lion's  progeny.  The  poet's 
effort  he  saw  to  be  "  a  presentment  of  the  correspon- 
dency of  the  universe  to  the  Deity,  of  the  natural  to 
the  spiritual,  and  of  the  actual  to  the  ideal."  Spirit- 
ual progress,  rather  than  art,  is  the  essential  thing. 
A  similarly  extreme  view  led  Carlyle  (himself,  like 
Cariyie.  Plato,  a  poet  throughout)  to  discounte- 

nance the  making  of  poetry  as  an  art.  Carried  too 
far,  the  Platonic  idea  often  has  vitiated  the  work 
Transcenden-  of  those  minor  transcendentalists  who  re- 

tal  strength 

and  weakness,  duce  their  poetics  to  didactics,  and  inject 
the  drop  of  prose  that  precipitates  their  rarest  elixir. 
Their  creed,  however,  —  with  its  inclusion  of  the 
bard  as  a  revealer  of  the  secret  of  things,  —  while 
not  fully  defining  poetry,  lays  stress  upon  its  high- 
est attribute. 

Thus  we  see  that  many  have  not  cared  to  speak 
Per  ambages,     absolutely,  and  more  have  failed  to  dis- 

ut  mos  oracu- 

lis-  criminate  between  the  thing  done  and  the 

means  of  doing.  Poetry  is  made  a  Brahma,  at  once 
the  slayer  and  the  slain.  A  vulgar  delusion,  that  of 
poetasters,  is  to  confound  the  art  with  its  materials. 
The  nobler  error  recognizes  the  poetic  spirit,  but 
not  that  spirit  incarnate  of  its  own  will  in  particular 
and  concrete  form.  The  outcome  is  scarcely  more 
exact  and  substantial  than  the  pretty  thesis  caroled 
by  "  one  of  America's  pet  Marjories  "  in  her  tenth 


CLEARER   UTTERANCES  25 

year,  and  long  since  become  of  record.  This  child's 
heart  detected  "poetry,  poetry  everywhere!"  and 
proclaimed  that 

"  You  breathe  it  in  the  summer  air, 
You  see  it  in  the  green  wild  woods, 
It  nestles  in  the  first  spring  buds. 

'T  is  poetry,  poetry  everywhere  — 
It  nestles  in  the  violets  fair, 
It  peeps  out  in  the  first  spring  grass  — 
Things  without  poetry  are  very  scarce." 

That  our  na'fve  little  rhymer  was  a  sibyl,  and  her 
statement  hardly  more  vague  than  the  definitions  of 
poetry  offered  by  older  philosophers,  who  will  deny  ? 
All  in  all,  various  writers  connected  with  the  art 
movement  of  the  present  century  have  clearer  state- 
most  sensibly  discussed  the  topic.  They  ments' 
recognize  poetry  as  an  entity,  subject  to  expressed 
conditions.  Hazlitt  and  Leigh  Hunt  logically  distin- 
guished between  it  and  poetic  feeling,  and  believed 
one  to  be  the  involuntary  utterance  of  the  other, 
sympathetically  modulating  the  poet's  sheiiey'snobie 

3       V  J  "Defence  of 

voice  to  its  key.  Shelley,  the  Ariel  of  Poetry,"  1821. 
songsters,  came  right  down  to  the  ground  of  our 
enchanted  isle,  laying  stress  upon  the  dependence 
of  the  utterance  on  rhythm  and  order  —  on  "  those 
arrangements  of  language,  and  especially  metrical 
language,  which  are  created  by  that  imperial  fac- 
ulty whose  throne  is  contained  within  the  invisible 
nature  of  man."  More  recently  the  poet-critic, 
Theodore  Watts,  in  the  best  modern  essay  upon  the 


26  ORACLES  OLD  AND  NEW 

subject,1  says  that  "absolute  poetry  is  the  concrete 
and  artistic  expression  of  the  human  mind  in  emo- 
tional and  rhythmical  language."  Here  we  certainly 
are  getting  out  of  the  mists.  In  these  formulas  an 
effort  for  precision  is  apparent,  and  the  latest  one 
would  be  satisfactory  did  it  insist  more  definitely, 
within  itself,  upon  the  office  of  the  imagination, 
and  upon  the  interpretative  gift  which  is  the  very 
soul  of  our  art. 

The  ideas  presented  by  many  of  the  poets  seem 
mam  conformed  to  their  own   re- 


The  personal 

Krmtation.        spective  gifts,  and  therefore  in  a  sense 

limited.  Thus,  years  after  Schlegel  had  termed  po- 
etry "  the  power  of  creating  what  is  beautiful,  and 
representing  it  to  the  eye  or  ear,"  our  disciple  of 
taste,  Poe,  who  avowed  that  poetry  had  been  to  him 
"  not  a  purpose,  but  a  passion,"  amended  Schlegel's 
terms  with  the  adjective  needed  to  complete  his  own 
Lecture  on  definition  —  "  the  Rhythmical  Creation  of 
principle,"'0  Beauty."  Never  did  a  wayward  romancer 
l845'  speak  with  a  sincerer  honesty  of  the  lyri- 

cal art,  and  he  clenched  his  statement  by  adding  that 
its  sole  arbiter  was  Taste.  If  you  accept  beauty  in  a 
comprehensive  sense,  including  all  emotions,  truths, 
and  ethics,  accept  this  definition  as  precise  and  un- 
flinching. But  Poe  confines  its  meaning  to  the  do- 
main of  aesthetics,  which  of  itself  he  thought  opposed 
to  vice  on  account  of  her  deformity  ;  furthermore, 
he  restricts  it  to  what  he  terms  supernal  beauty,  the 

1  "  Poetry,"  in  the  Encyclopedia  Britannica,  Ninth  Edition. 


MIL  TON—  POE  —  ARNOLD  2  7 

note  of  sadness  and  regret.  This  was  simply  his 
own  highest  range  and  emotion.  His  formula,  how- 
ever, will  always  be  tenderly  regarded  by  refined 
souls,  for  Beauty,  pure  and  simple,  is  the  alma  mater 
of  the  artist  ;  her  unswerving  devotee  is  absolved  — 
many  sins  are  forgiven  to  him  who  has  loved  her 
much. 

But  often  a  poet,  great  or  small,  has  burnished 
some  facet  of  the  jewel  we  are  setting.  TheMiitomc 
Milton's  declaration  that  poetry  is  "  sim-  canon- 
pie,  sensuous,  passionate,"  is  a  recognition  of  its 
most  effective  attributes.1     Lowell  has  sprinkled  the 
whole  subject  with  diamond-dust,  and  he,  of  all,  per- 
haps could  best  have  given  a  new  report  of  its  tricksy 
spirit.     Arnold's  phrase,  "a   criticism   of  AtTlold.s  Del. 
life,  under  the  conditions  fixed  for  such  a  P^  outgiving, 
criticism  by  the   laws  of   poetic  truth  and   poetic 

1  Milton's  phrase  has  become  familiar  as  a  proverb  since  Coleridge 
used  it  with  great  force  in  the  prelude  to  his  lectures  on  Shakespeare 
and  on  the  Drama,  but  it  is  seldom  quoted  with  its  context,  as  found 
in  the  tractate  On  Education,  addressed  to  Samuel  Hartlib,  A.  D. 
1644.  The  poet  there  speaks  of  "Rhetoric"  as  an  art  "to  which 
poetry  would  be  made  subsequent,  or  indeed  rather  precedent,  as 
being  less  subtile  and  fine,  but  more  simple,  sensuous,  and  passionate. 
I  mean  not  here  the  prosody  of  a  verse,  which  they  could  not  but  have 
hit  on  before  among  the  rudiments  of  grammar ;  but  that  sublime  art 
which  in  Aristotle's  poetics,  in  Horace,  .  .  .  teaches  what  the  laws 
are  of  a  true  epic  poem,  what  of  a  dramatic,  what  of  a  lyric,  what 
decorum  is,  which  is  the  grand  masterpiece  to  observe.  This  would 
make  them  soon  perceive  what  despicable  creatures  our  common 
rhymers  and  playwriters  be ;  and  show  them  what  religious,  what 
glorious  and  magnificent,  use  might  be  made  of  poetry,  both  in  divine 
and  human  things." 


28  ORACLES  OLD  AND  NEW 

beauty,"  is  of  value,  yet  one  of  those  definitions 
which  themselves  need  a  good  deal  of  defining. 
With  the  exception  of  Mr.  Watts,  we  see  that  not 
even  the  writers  of  our  logical  period  have  condensed 
into  a  single  clause  a  statement  that  establishes, 
practically  and  inclusively,  the  basis  on  which  our 
art  sustains  its  enrapturing  vitality,  and  Mr.  Watts's 
statement  leaves  something  for  inference  and  his 
after-explanation.  Before  endeavoring,  in  the  next 
lecture,  to  construct  a  framework  that  may  serve  our 
temporary  needs,  I  wish  to  consider  briefly  the  most 
suggestive  addition  which  this  century  has  made  to 
the  elements  previously  observed.  I  refer  to  the 
assertion  of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  that  poetry 
is  "  the  antithesis  to  science." 

What  does  this  assertion  mean,  and  how  far  does 
Poetry  as  the     its  bearing  extend?     The   poet   has  two 

antithesis  to          -  .  i  •  i  r 

science.  functions,  one  directly  opposed  to  that  of 

the  scientist,  and  avoided  by  him,  while  of  the  other 
the  scientist  is  not  always  master.  The  first  is  that 
of  treating  nature  and  life  as  they  seem,  rather  than 
as  they  are ;  of  depicting  phenomena,  which  often 
are  not  actualities.  I  refer  to  physical  actualities,  of 
which  the  investigator  gives  the  scientific  facts,  the 
poet  the  semblances  known  to  eye,  ear,  and  touch. 
The  poet's  other  function  is  the  exercise  of  an  in- 
sight which  pierces  to  spiritual  actualities,  to  the 
meaning  of  phenomena,  and  to  the  relations  of  all 
this  scientific  knowledge. 


POETRY  AND  SCIENCE  2Q 

To  illustrate  the  distinction  between  a  poet's,  or 
other  artist's,  old-style  treatment  of  things  The  Real  and 
as  they  seem  and  the  philosopher's  state-  the  APParent- 
ment  of  them  as  they  are,  I  once  used  an  extreme, 
and  therefore  a  serviceable,  example ;  to  wit,  the 
grand  Aurora  fresco  in  the  Rospigliosi  palace.  Here 
you  have  the  childlike,  artistic,  and  phenomenal  con- 
ception of  the  antique  poets.  To  them  the  Dawn 
was  a  joyous  heroic  goddess,  speeding  her  chariot  in 
advance  of  the  sun-god  along  the  clouds,  while  the 
beauteous  Hours  lackeying  her  scattered  many-hued 
blossoms  down  the  eastern  sky.  For  the  educated 
modern  there  is  neither  Aurora  nor  Apollo ;  there 
are  no  winged  Hours,  no  flowers  of  diverse  hues. 
His  sun  is  an  incandescent  material  sphere,  alive 
with  magnetic  forces,  engirt  with  hydrogenous  flame, 
and  made  up  of  constituents  more  or  less  recogniza- 
ble through  spectrum  analysis.  The  colors  of  the 
auroral  dawn — for  the  poet  still  fondly  calls  it  auro- 
ral —  are  rays  from  this  measurable  incandescence, 
refracted  by  the  atmosphere  and  clouds,  under  the 
known  conditions  that  have  likewise  put  to  test  both 
the  pagan  and  biblical  legends  of  that  prismatic  no- 
thing, the  rainbow  itself.1  The  stately  blank-verse 
poem,  "  Orion,"  which  the  late  Hengist  Home  pub- 
lished at  a  farthing  half  a  century  ago,  is  doubtless 
our  most  imaginative  rendering  of  the  legend  which 

1  "  There  was  an  awful  rainbow  once  in  heaven  : 
We  know  her  woof,  her  texture ;  she  is  given 
In  the  dull  catalogue  of  common  things." 

Keats :  Lamia. 


30  ORACLES  OLD  AND  NEW 

placed  the  blind  giant  in  the  skies.  The  most  superb 
of  constellations  represents  even  in  modern  poetry  a 
mythical  demigod.  In  science  it  was  but  the  other 
day  that  the  awful  whirl  of  nebulae  developed  by  the 
Lick  telescope  revealed  it  to  us  almost  as  a  distinct 
universe  in  itself. 

But  to  show  the  distinction  as  directly  affecting 
A  modem  modes  of  expression,  take  the  first  of 
countless  illustrations  that  come  to  hand  ; 
for  instance,  the  methods  applied  to  the  treatment 
of  one  of  our  recurrent  coast  storms.  The  poet 
says :  — 

"  When  descends  on  the  Atlantic 

The  gigantic 

Storm-wind  of  the  Equinox, 
Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 

The  toiling  surges 
Laden  with  sea-weed  from  the  rocks." 

Or  take  this  stanza  by  a  later  balladist :  — 

"  The  East  Wind  gathered,  all  unknown, 
A  thick  sea-cloud  his  course  before  : 
He  left  by  night  the  frozen  zone, 

And  smote  the  cliffs  of  Labrador ; 
He  lashed  the  coasts  on  either  hand, 
And  betwixt  the  Cape  and  Newfoundland 
Into  the  bay  his  armies  pour." 

All  this  impersonation  and  fancy  is  translated  by 
the  Weather  Bureau  into  something  like  the  follow- 
ing:— 

An  area  of  extreme  low  pressure  is  rapidly  moving  up 
the  Atlantic  coast,  with  wind  and  rain.    Storm-centre  now 


ANTITHETICAL  PROCESSES  31 

off  Charleston,  S.  C.  Wind  N.  E.  Velocity,  54.  Ba- 
rometer, 29.6.  The  disturbance  will  reach  New  York  on 
Wednesday,  and  proceed  eastward  to  the  Banks  and  Bay 
St.  Lawrence.  Danger-signals  ordered  for  all  North  At- 
lantic ports. 

We  cannot  too  clearly  understand  the  difference 
between  artistic  vision  and  scientific  ana-  The  distinction 

„,  .  ,  chiefly  one  of 

lysis.  The  poet  in  his  language  and  the  methods. 
painter  with  his  brush  are  insensibly  and  rightly 
affected  by  the  latter.  The  draughtsman,  it  is 
plain,  must  depict  nature  and  life  as  they  seem  to 
the  eye,  and  he  needs  only  a  flat  surface.  The 
camera  has  proved  this,  demonstrating  the  fidelity 
in  outline  and  shadow  of  drawings  antedating  its 
use.  The  infant,  the  blind  man  suddenly  given 
sight,  see  things  in  the  flat  as  we  do,  but  without 
our  acquired  sense  of  facts  indicated  by  their  per- 
spective. We  have  learned,  and  experience  has 
trained  our  senses  to  instant  perception,  that  things 
have  the  third  dimension,  that  of  thickness,  and  are 
not  equally  near  or  far.  The  Japanese,  with  an  in- 
stinct beyond  that  of  some  of  his  Mongolian  neigh- 
bors, avoids  an  extreme  flat  treatment  by  confining 
himself  largely  to  the  essential  lines  of  objects, 
allowing  one's  imagination  to  supply  the  rest.  He 
carries  suggestiveness,  the  poet's  and  the  artist's 
effective  ally,  to  the  utmost.  Still,  as  Mr.  Wores 
says,  he  has  no  scruples  about  facts,  "for  he  does 
not  pretend  to  draw  things  as  they  are,  or  should 
be,  but  as  they  seem."  Now,  it  is  probable  that  the 


32  ORACLES  OLD  AND  NEW 

Aryan  artist  is  born  with  a  more  analytic  vision 
than  that  of  the  Orient ;  if  not,  that  he  does  in- 
stinctively resist  certain  inclinations  to  draw  lines 
just  as  they  appear  to  him.  But  this  natural  resist- 
ance unquestionably  was  long  ago  reinforced  by  his 
study  of  the  laws  of  perspective.  The  generally 
truer  and  more  effective  rendering  of  outline  and 
shadow  by  Western  masters  cannot  be  denied,  and 
furnishes  an  example  of  the  aid  which  scientific 
analysis  can  render  to  the  artist.  In  just  the  same 
way,  we  may  see,  empirical  knowledge  is  steadily 
becoming  a  part  of  the  poet's  equipment,  and,  I 
have  no  doubt,  is  by  inherited  transmission  giving 
him  at  birth  an  ability  to  receive  from  phenomena 
more  scientifically  correct  impressions.  For  his 
purposes,  nevertheless,  the  portrayal  of  things  as 
they  seem  conveys  a  truth  just  as  important  as  that 
other  truth  which  the  man  of  analysis  and  demon- 
stration imparts  to  the  intellect.  It  is  the  methods 
that  are  antithetical. 

The   poet's   other  function,   which   the   scientist 
Discoveiy        does  not  avoid,  but  which  research  alone 

through  Im- 
agination, does  not  confer  upon  him,  is  that  of  seiz- 
ing the  abstract  truth  of  things  whether  observed  or 
discovered.  It  has  been  given  out,  though  I  do  not 
vouch  for  it,  that  Edison  obtains  some  of  his  ideas 
for  practical  invention  from  the  airy  flights  of  im- 
agination taken  by  writers  of  fiction.  In  any  case, 
it  is  clear  that  with  respect  to  inventive  surmise  the 
poet  is  in  advance  :  the  investigator,  if  he  would 


DISCOVERY  THROUGH  INTUITION  33 

leap  to  greater  discoveries,  must  have  the  poetic 
insight  and  imagination,  —  be,  in  a  sense,  a  poet 
himself,  and  exchange  the  mask  and  gloves  of  the 
alchemist  for  the  soothsayer's  wand  and  mantle. 
Those  of  our  geologists,  biologists,  mechanicians, 
who  are  not  thus  poets  in  spite  of  themselves  must 
sit  below  the  seers  who  by  intuition  strike  the  trail 
of  new  discovery.  For  beyond  both  the  phantasmal 
look  of  things  and  full  scientific  attainment  there  is 
a  universal  coherence  —  there  are  infinite  meanings 
—  which  the  poet  has  the  gift  to  see,  and  by  the 
revelation  and  prophecy  of  which  he  illumines  what- 
ever is  cognizable. 

The  so-called  conflict  of  science  and  religion,  in 
reality  one  of  fact  and  dogma,  has  been  waged  ob- 
viously since  the  time  of  Galileo.  Its  annals  are 
recorded.  It  was  the  sooner  inevitable  because 
science  takes  nothing  on  faith.  The  slower,  but 
equally  prognosticable,  effect  of  exact  science  on 
poetry,  though  foreseen  by  the  Lake  School,  was 
not  extreme  until  recently,  —  so  recently,  in  fact, 
that  a  chapter  which  I  devoted  to  it  in  cp.  "Victorian 

_  .      .  Poets "  :  pp. 

1874  was  almost  the  first  extended  con-  7-2'- 
sideration  that  it  received.  Since  then  it  has  been 
constantly  debated,  and  not  always  radically.  That 
the  poets  went  on  so  long  in  the  old  way,  very  much 
like  the  people  who  came  after  the  deluge,  was  due 
to  two  conditions.  First,  their  method  was  so  in- 
grained in  literature,  so  common  to  the  educated 
world,  that  it  sustained  a  beauteous  phantasmagory 


34  ORACLES  OLD  AND  NEW 

against  all  odds.  Again,  the  poets  have  walked  in 
lowly  ways,  and  each  by  himself  ;  they  have  no  proud 
temporal  league  and  station,  like  the  churchmen's, 
to  make  them  timid  of  innovation,  of  any  new  force 
that  may  shake  their  roof -trees.  They  have  been 
gipsies,  owning  nothing,  yet  possessed  of  everything 
without  the  care  of  it.  At  last  they  see  this  usu- 
fruct denied  them  ;  they  are  bidden  to  surrender 
even  their  myths  and  fallacies  and  inspiring  illu- 
sions. With  a  grace  that  might  earlier  have  been 
displayed  by  the  theologians,  they  are  striving  to 
adapt  art  to  its  conditions,  though  at  the  best  it  is 
a  slow  process  to  bring  their  clientage  to  the  new 
Through  night  ideality.  Though  the  imagery  and  diction 
which  have  served  their  use,  and  are  now 
absurd,  must  cease,  the  creation  of  something  truer 
and  nobler  is  not  the  work  of  a  day,  and  of  a  leader, 
but  of  generations.  So  there  is  a  present  struggle, 
and  the  poets  are  sharing  the  discomfort  of  the  dog- 
matists. The  forced  marches  of  knowledge  in  this 
age  do  insensibly  perturb  them,  even  give  the  world 
a  distaste  for  a  product  which,  it  fears,  we  must  dis- 
trust. The  new  learning  is  so  radiant,  so  novel,  and 
therefore  seemingly  remarkable,  that  of  itself  it 
satiates  the  world's  imagination.  Even  the  abashed 
idealists,  though  inspired  by  it,  feel  it  becoming  to 
fall  into  the  background.  Some  of  them  recognize 
it  with  stoical  cynicism  and  stern  effect.  In  Bal- 
zac's "  The  Search  for  the  Absolute,"  Balthazar's 
wife,  suffering  agonies,  makes  an  attempt  to  dis- 


THE  NEW  LEARNING  35 

suade  him  from  utterly  sacrificing  his  fortune,  his 
good  name,  even  herself,  in  the  effort  to  manufac- 
ture diamonds.  He  tenderly  grasps  her  in  his  arms, 
and  her  beautiful  eyes  are  filled  with  tears.  The 
infatuated  chemist,  wandering  at  once,  exclaims : 
"Tears  !  I  have  decomposed  them  :  they  contain  a 
little  phosphate  of  lime,  chloride  of  sodium,  mucin, 
and  water."  Such  is  the  last  infirmity  of  noble 
minds  to-day. 

We  latterly  find  our  bards  alive  to  scientific  reve- 
lations. It  has  been  well  said  that  a  Cp  „ Poets  o{ 
"  Paradise  Lost "  could  not  be  written  in  f^"'^15' 
this  century,  even  by  a  Milton.  In  his  382' 
time  the  Copernican  system  was  acknowledged,  but 
the  old  theory  of  the  universe  haunted  literature 
and  was  serviceable  for  that  conception  of  "  man's 
first  disobedience,"  and  the  array  of  infernal  and 
celestial  hosts,  to  which  the  great  epic  was  devoted. 
In  our  own  time  such  a  poet  as  Tennyson,  to  whom 
the  facts  of  nature  are  everything,  does  not  make  a 
lover  say,  "  O  god  of  day  !  "  but 

"  Move  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave 
Yon  orange  sunset,  waning  slow." 

Browning,  Banville,  Whitman,  Emerson  earliest  and 
most    serenely,  —  in   fact,    all   modern    intellectual 
poets,  —  not    only   adapt    their   works   to    physical 
knowledge,  but,  as  I  say,  often  forestall  it.     Even 
as  we  find  them  turned  savants,  we  find  Sdentificin. 
our  Clerk  Maxwells,  Roods,  Lodges,  Row-  tultlons- 
lands,   poets   in   their   quick   guesses   and    assump- 


36  ORACLES  OLD  AND  NEW 

tions.  Imaginative  genius  is  such  that  often  one 
of  its  electric  flames  will  come  through  what  is  ordi- 
narily a  non-conductor.  That  term,  howbeit,  can- 
not be  applied  to  an  American  scientist1  who  enjoys 
the  distinction  of  being  at  once  a  master  of  abstruse 
mathematics  and  a  brilliant  writer  of  very  poetic 
novels,  and  to  whom  I  put  the  same  question  I  have 
addressed  to  poets,  —  simply,  What  is  poetry  ?  He 
Letter  from  an  repaid  me  with  a  letter  setting  forth  in 

imaginative 

savant.  aptest  phrase  his  own  belief  in  the  kin- 

dred imaginations  of  the  physicist  and  the  poet. 
Naturally  he  considers  the  physical  discoverer  just 
now  more  triumphant  and  essential.  "  His  study," 
he  says,  "  is  relations.  When  he  cannot  discover 
them,  he  invents  them,  —  strings  his  fact-beads  on 
the  thread  of  hypothesis."  After  some  illustrations 
of  this,  he  sets  present  research  above  past  fancy, 
and  exclaims :  "  Compare  the  wings  of  light  on 
which  we  ascend  with  a  speed  to  girdle  the  earth 
eight  times  a  second,  to  sift  the  constitution  of  stars, 
with  the  steed  of  Mohammed  and  its  five-league 
steps  and  eyes  of  jacinth  !  What  a  chapter  the  Ori- 
ental poet  could  give  us  to-day  in  a  last  edition  of 
Job  —  founding  the  conception  of  the  Unknown  on 
what  we  know  of  his  works,  instead  of  on  our  igno- 
rance of  them.  I  want  a  new  Paul  to  rewrite  and 
restate  the  doctrine  of  immortality." 

But  here  the  poet  may  justly  break  in  and  say, 
It  is  not   from  investigators,  but  from  the  divine 

1  Prof.  A.  S.  Hardy,  of  Dartmouth  College. 


POET  AND  SA  VANT  37 

preachers,  that  we  inherit  this  doctrine  of  immor- 
tality. Being  poets,  through  insight  they  Insight  first  of 
saw  it  to  be  true,  and  announced  it  as  ail- 
revealed  to  them.  Let  science  demonstrate  it,  as  it 
yet  may,  and  the  idealists  will  soon  adjust  their 
imagery  and  diction  to  the  resulting  conditions.  It 
is  only  thus  they  can  give  satisfaction  and  hold 
their  ground.  The  prolongation  of  worn-out  fancy 
has  been  somewhat  their  own  fault,  and  it  is  just 
they  should  suffer  for  it.  Still,  although  we  may 
shift  externals,  the  idealists  will  be  potent  as  ever ; 
their  strength  lies  not  in  their  method,  but  in  their 
sovereign  perception  of  the  relations  of  things.  Even 
the  theologians  no  longer  dismiss  facts  with  the 
quotation,  "  Canst  thou  by  searching  find  out  God  ?  " 
The  world  has  learned  that  at  all  events  we  can 
steadily  broaden  and  heighten  our  conception  of  him. 
We  are  beginning  to  verify  Lowell's  prophetic  state- 
ment :  — 

"  Science  was  faith  once  ;  Faith  were  science  now 
Would  she  but  lay  her  bow  and  arrows  by 
And  arm  her  with  the  weapons  of  the  time." 

Theology,  teaching  immortality,  now  finds  science 
deducing  the  progressive  existence  of  the  Aspects  of  the 
soul  as  an  inference  from  the  law  of  evolu-  transitlon- 
tion.  Poetry  finds  science  offering  it  fresh  discovery 
as  the  terrace  from  which  to  essay  new  flights. 
While  realizing  this  aid,  a  temporary  disenchantment 
is  observed.  The  public  imagination  is  so  intent 
upon  the  marvels  of  force,  life,  psychology,  that  it 


38  ORACLES  OLD  AND  NEW 

concerns  itself  less  with  the  poet's  ideals.  Who 
cares  for  the  ode  pronounced  at  the  entrance  of  this 
Exposition,  while  impatient  to  reach  the  exhibits 
within  the  grounds  ?  Besides,  fields  of  industrial 
achievement  are  opened  by  each  investigation,  en- 
hancing human  welfare,  and  absorbing  our  energies. 
The  soldiers  of  this  noble  war  do  not  meditate  and 
idealize  ;  their  prayer  and  song  are  an  impulse,  not 
an  occupation. 

My  romancer  and  scientist  goes  on  to  say,  "  In  all 
The  poet's  this  the  poet  loses  nothing.  It  is  funda- 
g"ound!  e  mental  fact  that  the  conquest  of  mystery 
leads  to  greater  mystery ;  the  more  we  know  the 
greater  the  material  for  the  imagination."  This  I 
too  believe,  and  that  the  poet's  province  is,  and  ever 
must  be,  the  expression  of  the  manner  in  which  re- 
vealed truths,  and  truths  as  yet  unseen  but  guessed 
and  felt  by  him,  affect  the  emotions  and  thus  sway 
man's  soul. 

Therefore  his  final  ground  is  still  his  own,  and  he 
well  may  say,  as  Whitman  chanted  thirty  years 
ago:  — 

"  Space  and  Time  !  now  I  see  it  is  true,  what  I  guessed  at. 

I  accept  Reality,  and  dare  not  question  it, 
Materialism  first  and  last  imbuing. 

Gentlemen,  to  you  the  first  honors  always  ! 

Your  facts  are  useful,  and  yet  they  are  not  my  dwelling, 

I  but  enter  by  them  to  an  area  of  my  dwelling. 

Less  the  reminders  of  properties  told  my  words, 

And  more  the  reminders  they  of  life  untold." 


IMMORTAL  BROTHERHOOD  39 

Insight  and  spiritual  feeling  will  continue  to  pre- 
cede discovery  and  sensation.  In  their  footprints 
the  investigator  must  advance  for  his  next  truth, 
and  at  the  moment  of  his  advance  become  one  with 
the  poet.  In  the  words  of  Tyndall  on  Emerson, 
"Poetry,  with  the  joy  of  a  bacchanal,  takes  her  grave 
brother  by  the  hand,  and  cheers  him  with  immortal 
laughter."  Meanwhile  the  laws  of  change,  Ebb  and  flow, 
fashion,  ennui,  that  breed  devotion  first  to  one  exer- 
cise of  man's  higher  faculty,  and  anon  to  another, 
will  direct  the  public  attention  alternately  to  the 
investigator  and  to  the  poet.  In  lulls  or  fatigue  of 
discovery,  there  will  be  an  eager  return  to  the  oracles 
for  their  interpretation  of  the  omens  of  the  labora- 
tory and  ward.  The  services  of  the  temple  are  con- 
fined no  more  to  the  homily  and  narrative  than  to 
song  and  prayer. 


II. 

WHAT  IS    POETRY? 

THESE  lectures,  as  I  have  intimated,  are  purposely 
direct  of  statement,  and  even  elementary.  A  word 
From  my  point  of  view  this  does  not  of  it-  b 
self  imply  a  lack  of  respect  for  the  intelligence  of 
the  listener.  The  most  advanced  star-gazer  holds  to 
his  mathematics ;  while,  as  to  poetry,  enthusiasts 
find  it  easier  to  build  fine  sentences  than  to  make 
clear  to  others,  if  to  themselves,  the  nature  of  that 
which  affects  them  so  inspiringly.  I  trust  that  you 
are  willing,  in  place  of  the  charm  of  style  and  the 
jest  and  epigram  of  discourses  for  entertainment,  to 
accept  a  search  for  the  very  stuff  whereof  the  Muse 
fashions  her  transubstantial  garments  —  to  discover 
what  plant  or  moth  supplies  the  sheeny  fibre  ;  in 
what  heat,  what  light,  the  iridescent  fabric  is  dyed 
and  spun  and  woven. 

It  has  occurred  to  me  —  I  think  it  may  not  seem 
amiss   to   you  —  that   this   eager  modern  The  direct 

..         and  timely 

time,  when  the  world  has  turned  critic,  question, 
this    curious    evening   of    the    century,    when   the 
hum  of  readers  and  the  mists  of  thought  go  up  from 
every  village ;  when  poetry  is  both  read  and  written, 
whether  well  or  ill,  more  generally  than  ever  before ; 


42  WHAT  IS  POETRY f 

and  when  clubs  are  formed  for  its  study  and  enjoy- 
ment, where  commentators  urban  or  provincial,  mas- 
ters and  mistresses  of  analytics,  devote  nights  to  the 
elucidation  of  a  single  verse  or  phrase  —  it  has  oc- 
curred to  me  that  this  is  an  opportune  time  for  the 
old  question,  so  often  received  as  if  it  were  a  jet  of 
cold  water  upon  steam  or  the  stroke  of  midnight  at 
a  masquerade  —  an  apt  time  to  ask  ourselves,  What, 
then,  is  poetry,  after  all  ?  What  are  the  elements 
beneath  its  emotion  and  intellectual  delight  ?  Let  us 
have  the  primer  itself.  For,  if  such  a  primer  be  not 
constructible,  if  it  be  wholly  missing  or  disdained, 
you  may  feel  and  enjoy  a  poem,  but  you  will  hardly 
be  consistent  in  your  discourse  upon  it,  and  this 
whether  you  concern  yourself  with  Browning,  or 
Meredith,  or  Ibsen,  —  as  is  now  the  mode,  —  or  with 
the  masterworks  of  any  period. 

Nevertheless,  we  too   must  begin  our  answer  to 
The  poetic       the  question,  What  is  poetry?  by  declar- 

spirit  not  redu- 
cible to  terms,    ing  that  the  essential  spirit  of  poetry  is 

indefinable.  It  is  something  which  is  perceived  and 
felt  through  a  reciprocal  faculty  shared  by  human 
beings  in  various  degrees.  The  range  of  these  de- 
grees is  as  wide  as  that  between  the  boor  and  the 
sensitive  adept  —  between  the  racial  Calibans  and 
Prosperos.  The  poetic  spirit  is  absolute  and  primal, 
acknowledged  but  not  reducible,  and  therefore  we 
postulate  it  as  an  axiom  of  nature  and  sensation. 
To  state  this  otherwise :  it  is  true  that  the  poetic 


DEFINABLE  IN  THE  CONCRETE  43 

essence  always  has  been  a  force,  an  energy,  both 
subtile  and  compulsive ;  a  primal  force,  like  that 
energy  the  discovery  of  whose  unities  is  the  grand 
physical  achievement  of  this  century.  The  shapes 
which  it  informs  are  Protean,  and  have  a  seeming 
elusiveness.  Still,  even  Proteus,  as  Vergil  tells  us,  is 
capturable.  Force,  through  its  vehicle  of  light,  be- 
comes fixed  within  the  substance  of  our  planet ;  in 
the  carbon  of  the  fern,  the  tree,  the  lump  its  vocal  ex- 

,.  .    ,        rr^t  •  •    •       pressionmay 

of  coal,  the  diamond.  The  poetic  spirit  be  defined, 
becomes  concrete  through  utterance,  in  that  poetry 
which  enters  literature  ;  that  is,  in  the  concrete  ut- 
terances of  age  after  age.  Nothing  of  this  is  dura- 
bly preserved  but  that  which  possesses  the  crystal- 
line gift  of  receiving  and  giving  out  light  indefinitely, 
yet  losing  naught  from  its  reservoir.  Poetry  is  the 
diamond  of  these  concretions.  It  gives  out  light  of 
its  own,  but  anticipates  also  the  light  of  after-times, 
and  refracts  it  with  sympathetic  splendors. 

With  this  uttered  poetry,  then,  we  are  at  present 
concerned.  Whether  sung,  spoken,  or  written,  it  is 
still  the  most  vital  form  of  human  expression.  One 
who  essays  to  analyze  its  constituents  is  an  explorer 
undertaking  a  quest  in  which  many  have  failed. 
Doubtless  he  too  may  fail,  but  he  sets  forth  in  the 
simplicity  of  a  good  knight  who  does  not  fear  his 
fate  too  much,  whether  his  desert  be  great  or  small. 

In   this    mood   seeking  a  definition  of  A  definition  of 

.   .    .      .  -  Poetry  in  the 

that  poetic  utterance  which  is  or  may  be-  concrete, 
come  of  record,  —  a  definition  both  defensible  and 


44  WHAT  IS  POETRY? 

inclusive,  yet  compressed  into  a  single  phrase,  —  I 
have  put  together  the  following  statement : 

Poetry  is  rhythmical,  imaginative  language,  express- 
ing the  invention,  taste,  thought,  passion,  and  insight, 
of  the  human  soul. 

First  of  all,  and  as  a  corollary,  —  a  resultant  from 
the  factors  of  imaginative  invention  and 

i.Theimagina- 

and  express!™  expression,  —  we  infer  that  poetry  is,  in 
are  Creative.  common  with  other  art  products,  a  crea- 
tion, of  which  the  poet  is  the  creator,  the  maker. 
Expression  is  the  avowed  function  of  all  the  arts, 
their  excuse  for  being ;  out  of  the  need  for  it,  art  in 
the  rude  and  primitive  forms  has  ever  sprung.  No 
work  of  art  has  real  import,  none  endures,  unless 
the  maker  has  something  to  say  —  some  thought 
which  he  must  express  imaginatively,  whether  to  the 
eye  in  stone  or  on  canvas,  or  to  the  ear  in  music  or 
artistic  speech ;  this  thought,  the  imaginative  con- 
ception moving  him  to  utterance,  being  his  creative 
idea  —  his  art-ideal.  This  simple  truth,  persistently 
befogged  by  the  rhetoric  of  those  who  do  not  "  see 
clear  and  think  straight,"  and  who  always  underrate 
the  strength  and  beauty  of  an  elementary  fact,  is  the 
Metrical  ^ast  to  k£  realized  by  commonplace  mech- 
steriiity.  anicians.  They  go  through  the  process  of 
making  pictures  or  verses  without  the  slightest  mis- 
sion—  really  with  nothing  to  say  or  reveal.  They 
mistake  the  desire  to  beget  for  the  begetting  power. 
Their  mimes  and  puppets  have  everything  but  souls. 
Now,  the  imaginative  work  of  a  true  artist,  convey- 


CREA  TION—  INSIGHT  45 

ing  his  own  ideal,  is  creative  because  it  is  the  ex- 
pression, the  new  embodiment,  of  his  particular  na- 
ture, the  materialization  of  something  which  renders 
him  a  congener,  even  a  part,  of  the  universal  soul  — 
that  divinity  whose  eternal  function  it  is  to  create. 
The  expressive  artist  is  to  this  extent  indeed  fash- 
ioned after  his  Maker.  He  can  even  declare,  in  the 
words  of  Beddoes,  who  used  them,  however,  to  re- 
veal his  surprising  glimpses  of  evolution  :  — 

"  I  have  a  bit  of  Fiat  in  my  soul, 
And  can  myself  create  my  little  world." 

At  the  same  time,  the  quality  of  the  poet's  crea- 
tion, be  it  lyrical,  narrative,  or  dramatic,   a  Thepoet 
is  in  a  sense  that  of  revelation.     He  can-  ^rougl!^ 
not  invent  forms  and  methods  and  sym-  Insight- 
bols  out  of  keeping  with  what  we  term  the  nature 
of  things  ;   such    inventions,  if   possible,  would   be 
monstrous,    baleful,   not   to   be    endured.      But   he 
utters,  reveals,  and   interprets   what   he   sees   with 
that  inward  vision,  that  second  sight,  the  prophetic 
gift  of  certain  personages,  —  that  which  I  mean  by 
"insight,"  and  through  which  the  poet  is  thought 
to  be  inspired.     This  vision  penetrates  what  Plato 
conceived  to  be  the  quintessence  of  nature,  what 
Wordsworth,    in   his   very   highest    mood,    declares 
that  we  perceive  only  when 

"we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul : 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things." 


46  WHAT  IS  POETRY? 

The  creative  insight,  according  to  its  degree,  is 
Genius  its  rec-  ^^^  with,  if  not  the  source  of ,  the  mys- 
itTscie.Yfk1  terious  endowment  named  genius,  which 
humdrum  intellects  have  sought  to  dis- 
allow, claiming  that  it  lies  chiefly  in  one  of  its  fre- 
quent attributes,  —  industry,  —  but  which  the  wis- 
dom of  generations  has  indubitably  recognized. 
The  antique  and  idealistic  notion  of  this  gift  is 
given  in  "  Ion "  :  "A  poet  ...  is  unable  to  com- 
pose poetry  until  he  becomes  inspired  and  is  out  of 
his  sober  senses,  and  his  imagination  is  no  longer 
under  his  control ;  for  he  does  not  compose  by  art, 
but  through  a  divine  power."  The  modern  and  sci- 
entific rendering  is  that  of  the  exact  investigator, 
Hartmann,  who  traces  this  power  of  genius  to  its 
inmost  cell,  and  classifies  it  as  the  spontaneous,  in- 
voluntary force  of  the  untrammelled  soul,  —  in  pre- 
cise terms,  "  the  activity  and  efflux  of  the  Intellect 
freed  from  the  domination  of  the  Conscious  Will." 
Whichever  statement  you  accept,  —  and  I  see  no 
reason  why  the  two  are  not  perfectly  concordant,  — 
here  is  the  apparently  superhuman  gift  which  drew 
from  Sophocles  that  cry  of  wonder,  "  ^Eschylus  does 
what  is  right  without  knowing  it." 

As  an  outcome  of  genius  producing  the  semblance 
3.  Poetry  as  °^  what  its  insight  discovers,  poetry  aims 
o? thTbeam"  to  convey  beauty  and  truth  in  their  ab- 
solute simplicity  of  kind,  but  limitless 
variety  of  guise  and  adaptation.  The  poet's  vision 
of  these  is  shared  to  some  extent  by  all  of  us,  else 


EXPRESSION  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL         47 

his  appeal  would  not  be  universal.  But  to  his  in- 
born taste  and  wisdom  is  given  the  power  of  coade- 
quate  expression.  Taste  has  been  vilely  mistaken 
for  a  sentiment,  and  disgust  with  its  abuse  may  have 
incited  the  Wordsworthians  and  others  to  disqualify 
it.  They  limited  their  own  range  by  so  doing.  The 
world  forgives  most  sins  more  readily  than  those 
against  beauty.  There  was  something  ridiculous,  if 
heroic,  in  the  supercilious  attitude  of  our  transcen- 
dentalists,  not  only  putting  themselves  against  the 
laity,  but  opposing  the  whole  body  of  their  fellow 
seers  and  artists,  whose  solace  for  all  labors  ever  has 
been  the  favor  of  their  beloved  mistress  Beauty,  — 
the  inspirer  of  creative  taste. 

The  truth  is  that  taste,  however  responsive  to  cul- 
tivation, is  inborn,  —  as  spontaneous  as  through  crea. 
insight,  and,  indeed,  with  an  insight  of  tiveTaste- 
its  own.  Schlegel's  alertness  with  respect  to  the 
aesthetic  moved  him  to  define  even  genius  as  "  the 
almost  unconscious  choice  of  the  highest  degree  of 
excellence,  and,  consequently,"  he  added,  "  it  is  taste 
in  its  highest  activity."  Profound  thinkers,  lofty 
and  unselfish  natures,  may  flourish  without  taste  :  if 
so,  they  miss  a  sense,  nor  only  one  that  is  physical, 
—  something  else  is  lacking,  if  the  body  be  the  sym- 
bol of  the  soul.  I  would  not  go  so  far  as  to  say  of 
one  born,  for  instance,  without  ear  for  melody,  that 
there  will  be  "  no  music  in  his  soul "  when  that  is 
disembodied.  It  is  finer  to  believe  that 

"  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in  " 


48  WHAT  IS  POETRY? 

such  a  one  cannot  hear  it ;  that 

"  The  soul,  with  nobler  resolutions  deck'd, 
The  body  stooping,  does  herself  erect." 

But  taste,  whether  in  or  out  of  the  body,  is  a  fac- 
Taste  often  ulty  for  want  of  which  many  ambitious 

wanting  or  J  .  J 

assumed.  thinkers  have  in  the  end  railed  as  poets. 
It  is  a  sense,  however,  the  functions  of  which  are 
very  readily  assumed  and  mechanically  imitated. 
At  periods  when  what  are  called  false  and  artificial 
standards  have  prevailed,  as,  in  French  and  English 
letters  from  1675  to  1790,  the  word  "taste"  has 
been  on  every  one's  lips,  and  the  true  discernment 
of  beauty  has  been  supposed  to  be  supreme,  when 
in  fact  merely  the  crown  and  sceptre  of  taste  have 
been  set  up  and  its  mantle  stuffed  with  straw.  At 
this  very  time  art  is  suffering  everywhere  from  an 
immense  variety  of  standards  and  models,  and  our 
taste,  in  spite  of  the  diverse  and  soulless  yet  attrac- 
tive productions  of  the  studio  and  the  closet,  is  that 
of  an  interregnum. 

Assuming  that  the  artist's  conceptions  are  spon- 
4  Poetry  as  taneous  and  imaginative,  their  working 
oHmeUrcuS  out  brings  into  play  the  conscious  intel- 
lect. He  gives  us  thought,  building  up 
masterpieces  from  the  germinal  hint  or  motive  :  his 
wisdom  is  of  so  pure  a  type  that  through  it  the 
poet  and  the  philosopher,  in  their  ultimate  and  pos- 
sible development,  seem  united.  It  is  the  exclusive 
presentation  of  thought  and  truth  that  makes  poetry 
didactical,  and  hence  untrue  in  the  artistic  sense. 


THOUGHT  —  FEELING  49 

For  taste  has  been  finely  declared  to  be  "  the  artistic 
ethics  of  the  soul,"  and  it  is  only  through  a  just  bal- 
ance of  all  the  elements  in  question  that  poetry 
rises  above  ordinary  and  universal  human  speech 
and  becomes  a  veritable  art. 

Under  the  conditions  of  these  reciprocal  ele- 
ments, the  poet's  nature,  "  all  touch,  all  Emotion. 
eye,  all  ear,"  exalted  to  a  creative  pitch,  SfaSS*"* 
becomes  emotional.  Feeling  is  the  exci-  S1 
tant  of  genuine  poetry.  The  Miltonic  canon,  re- 
quiring the  sensuous  beauty  which  taste  alone 
insures,  demands,  last  of  all,  as  if  laying  stress  upon 
its  indispensability,  that  poetry  should  be  passionate. 
It  is  the  impassioned  spirit  that  awakes  the  imagi- 
nation, whose  taste  becomes  alert,  that  hears  whis- 
perings which  others  do  not  hear,  —  which  it  does 
not  itself  hear  in  calmer  periods,  —  that  breaks  into 
lyric  fervor  and  melody,  and  that  arouses  kindred 
spirits  with  recital  of  its  brave  imaginings.  Feeling 
of  any  kind  is  the  touch  upon  the  poet's  electric 
keyboard  ;  the  passio  vera  of  his  more  intense  moods 
furnishes  the  impulse  and  the  power  for  effective 
speech.  His  emotion  instinctively  acquires  the  tone 
and  diction  fitted  to  its  best  expression.  Even  the 
passion  of  a  hateful  nature  is  not  without  a  certain 
distinction.  Flame  is  magnificent,  though  it  feed 
upon  the  homes  of  men. 

Right  here  we  stop  to  consider  that  thus  far  our 
discussion  of  the  poetic  elements  applies  with  almost 


50  WHAT  IS  POETRY f 

equal  significance  to  all  the  fine  arts  ;  each  of  them, 
But  the  fore-  m  ^act»  being  a  means  of  expressing  the 
fe'rtfin^TaT5  taste,  thought,  passion,  imagination,  and 
insight,  of  its  devotee.  The  generic  prin- 
ciples of  one  are  those  of  all.  Analysis  of  one  is 
to  this  extent  that  of  art  as  art :  a  remark  illus- 
trated by  the  talk  of  every  noteworthy  virtuoso, 
from  Angelo  to  Reynolds  and  Ruskin  and  Taine. 
Reflect  for  an  instant  upon  the  simultaneous  appear- 
ance of  a  certain  phase,  such  as  Preraphaelitism,  in 
the  plastic,  structural,  and  decorative  arts,  in  imagi- 
native literature;  and  on  the  stage  itself,  and  you  see 
that  the  Muses  are  indeed  sisters,  and  have  the  same 
food  and  garments,  —  often  the  same  diseases.  But 
take  for  granted  the  "  consensus  of  the  arts."  What 
is  it,  then,  that  differentiates  them  ?  Nothing  so 
much  as  their  respective  vehicles  of  expression.  The 
6.  Poetry,  key-stone  of  our  definition  is  the  statement 

then,  is  an  art 

of  Speech.  that  poetry,  in  the  concrete  and  as  under 
consideration,  is  language.  Words  are  its  specific 
implements  and  substance.  And  art  must  be  dis- 
tinguished, whatsoever  its  spirit,  by  its  concrete 
form.  A  picture  of  the  mind  is  not  a  painting. 
There  is  a  statue  in  every  stone ;  but  what  matters 
it,  if  only  the  brooding  sculptor  sees  it  ?  A  cataract, 
a  sunset,  a  triumph,  a  poetic  atmosphere,  or  mood, 
or  effect,  —  none  of  these  is  a  poem.  When  Emer- 
son and  Miss  Fuller  went  together  to  see  Fanny 
Elssler  dance,  and  the  philosopher  whispered  to  the 
sibyl,  "  Margaret,  this  is  poetry ! "  and  the  sibyl  re- 


AN  ART  OF  RHYTHMIC  SPEECH.          5 1 

joined,  "  Waldo,  it  is  religion  !  "  they  both,  I  take  it, 
would  have  confessed  with  Hosea  that  they  had  used 
similitudes.  We  are  now  considering  the  palpable 
results  of  inspiration.  Poetry  houses  itself  in  words, 
sung,  spoken,  or  inscribed,  though  there  is  a  fine  dis- 
crimination in  the  opening  sentence  of  Ben  Jonson's 
Grammar,  which  declares  of  language  that  "the 
writing  [of  it]  is  but  an  accident." 

Language  is  colloquial  and  declarative  in  our  ordi- 
nary speech,  and  on  its  legs  for  common  Its  character. 
use  and  movement.  Only  when  it  takes  ls^cajsnguage 
wings  does  it  become  poetry.  As  the 
poet,  touched  by  emotion,  rises  to  enthusiasm  and 
imaginative  power  or  skill,  his  speech  grows  rhyth- 
mic, and  thus  puts  on  the  attribute  that  distinguishes 
it  from  every  other  mode  of  artistic  expression  — 
the  guild-mark  which,  rightly  considered,  establishes 
the  nature  of  the  thing  itself.  At  this  date  there 
is  small  need  to  descant  upon  the  universality  of 
rhythm  in  all  relations  of  force  and  matter,  nor 
upon  its  inherent  consonance  with  the  lightest,  the 
profoundest,  sensations  of  the  living  soul.  Let  us 
accept  the  wisdom  of  our  speculative  age,  which 
scrutinizes  all  phenomena  and  reaches  the  scien- 
tific bases  of  experience,  and,  looking  from  nadir  to 
zenith,  acknowledges  a  psychological  impulse  behind 
every  physical  function.  The  earliest  observers  saw 
that  life  was  rhythmical,  that  man  and  brute  are  the 
subjects  of  recurrent  touch,  sensation,  order,  and  are 
alike  responsive  to  measured  sound,  the  form  of 


5  2  WHA  T  IS  POE  TR  Y? 

rhythm  most  obvious  and  recognizable ;  that  music, 
for  instance,  affects  the  most  diverse  animate  gen- 
era, from  the  voiceless  insect  and  serpent  to  the 
bird  with  its  semi-vocal  melody,  and  the  man  whom 
it  incites  to  speech  and  song.  The  ancients  no  less 
comprehended  the  rhythm  of  air  and  water,  the  mul- 
titudinous harmonies,  complex  and  blended,  of  ocean 
The  soul  surges  and  wind-swept  pines.  But  our 
vT^tions.  new  empiricism,  following  where  intuition 
leads  the  way,  comprehends  the  function  of  vibra- 
tions :  it  perceives  that  every  movement  of  matter, 
seized  upon  by  universal  force,  is  vibratory ;  that  vi- 
brations, and  nothing  else,  convey  through  the  body 
the  look  and  voice  of  nature  to  the  soul ;  that  thus 
alone  can  one  incarnate  individuality  address  its  fel- 
low ;  that,  to  use  old  Bunyan's  imagery,  these  vibra- 
tions knock  at  the  ear-gate,  and  are  visible  to  the 
eye-gate,  and  are  sentient  at  the  gates  of  touch  of 
the  living  temple.  The  word  describing  their  action 
is  in  evidence:  they  "thrill"  the  body,  they  thrill 
the  soul,  both  of  which  respond  with  subjective,  in- 
terblending  vibrations,  according  to  the  keys,  the 
wave-lengths,  of  their  excitants. 

Thus  it  is  absolutely  true  that  what  Buxton  For- 
E  true  man  calls  "idealized  language,"  that  is, 
whh  the°^jt  speech  which  is  imaginative  and  rhythmi- 
of  Rhythm.  calj  goes  with  emotionai  thought  \  and 

that  words  exert  a  mysterious  and  potent  influence, 
thus  chosen  and  assorted,  beyond  their  normal  mean- 
ings. Equally  true  it  is  that  natural  poets  in  sensi- 


A   VIBRATORY  FORC&.  53 

tive  moods  have  this  gift  of  choice  and  rhythmic  as- 
sortment, just  as  a  singer  is  born  with  voice  and  ear, 
or  a  painter  with  a  knack  of  drawing  likenesses  be- 
fore he  can  read  or  write.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say 
that  if  not  born  with  this  endowment  he  is  not  a 
poet :  a  poetic  nature,  if  you  choose,  —  indeed,  often 
more  good,  pure,  intellectual,  even  more  sensitive, 
than  another  with  the  "  gift,"  —  and,  again,  one  who 
in  time  by  practice  may  excel  in  rhythmical  mecha- 
nism him  that  has  the  gift  but  slights  it ;  neverthe- 
less, over  and  over  again,  not  a  born  poet,  not  of  the 
royal  breed  that  by  warrant  roam  the  sacred  groves. 
I  lay  stress  upon  this,  because,  in  an  age  of  econom- 
ics and  physics  and  prose  fiction,  the  fashion  is  to 
slight  the  special  distinction  of  poetry  and  to  depre- 
cate its  supremacy  by  divine  right,  and  to  do  this  as 
our  democracy  reduces  kingcraft  —  through  extend- 
ing its  legitimate  range.  You  cannot  force  artists, 
architects,  musicians,  to  submit  to  such  a  process, 
for  material  dividing  lines  are  too  obvious.  Other- 
wise, some  would  undoubtedly  make  the  attempt. 
But  poetic  vibrations  are  impalpable  to  the  carnal 
touch,  and  unseen  by  the  bodily  eye,  so  that  every 
realist,  according  to  his  kind,  either  discredits  them 
or  lays  claim  to  them.  All  the  same,  nothing  ever 
has  outrivaled  or  ever  will  outrival,  as  a  declaration 
of  the  specific  quality  of  poetry,  the  assertion  that 
its  makers  do 

"  feed  on  thoughts,  that  voluntary  move 
Harmonious  numbers ;  " 


54  WHAT  IS  POETRY? 

and  the  minstrel  poet,  of  my  acceptation,  "lisped  in 
numbers"  as  an  infant  —  and  well  does  the  hack- 
neyed verse  reiterate,  "  for  the  numbers  came." 

Aside  from  the  vibratory  mission  of  rhythm,  its 
Rhythmical  little  staff  of  adjuvants,  by  the  very  disci- 
minorSaids.  pline  and  limitations  which  they  impose, 
take  poetry  out  of  the  place  of  common  speech,  and 
make  it  an  art  which  lifts  the  hearer  to  its  own  unu- 
sual key.  Schiller  writes  to  Goethe  that  "  rhythm, 
in  a  dramatic  work,  treats  all  characters  and  all  situ- 
ations according  to  one  law.  ...  In  this  manner  it 
forms  the  atmosphere  for  the  poetic  creation.  The 
more  material  part  is  left  out,  for  only  what  is  spir- 
itual can  be  borne  by  this  thin  element."  In  real, 
that  is,  spontaneous  minstrelsy,  the  fittest  assonance, 
consonance,  time,  even  rhyme,  —  if  rhyme  be  in- 
voked, and  rhyme  has  been  aptly  called  "both  a 
memory  and  a  hope,"  —  come  of  themselves  with 
the  imaginative  thought.  The  soul  may  conceive 
unconsciously,  and,  as  I  believe  in  spite  of  certain 
metaphysicians,  without  the  use  of  language ;  but 
when  the  wire  is  put  up,  the  true  and  only  words  — 
just  so  far  as  the  conception  is  true  and  clear  and 
the  minstrel's  gift  coequal  —  are  flashed  along  it. 
Such  is  the  test  of  genuineness,  the  underlying  prin- 
ciple being  that  the  masterful  words  of  all  poetic 
tongues  are  for  the  most  part  in  both  their  open  and 
consonantal  sounds  related  to  their  meanings,  so 
that  with  the  inarticulate  rhythm  of  impassioned 
thought  we  have  a  correspondent  verbal  rhythm  for 


SPONTANEOUSLY  RHYTHMICAL  55 

its  vehicle.  The  whole  range  of  poetry  which  is 
vital,  from  the  Hebrew  psalms  and  prophecies,  in 
their  original  text  and  in  our  great  English  version, 
to  the  Georgian  lyrics  and  romances  and  the  Vic- 
torian idyls,  confirms  the  statement  of  Mill  that 
"  the  deeper  the  feeling,  the  more  characteristic 
and  decided  the  rhythm."  The  rapture  of  the  poet 
governs  the  tone  and  accent  of  his 

"  high  and  passionate  thoughts 
To  their  own  music  chanted." 

Whoever,  then,  chooses  to  exempt  poetry  from 
this  affinity  with  rhythm  is  not  consider-  Theessential 
ing  the  subject-matter  of  these  discourses,  differentiation. 
Not  that  I  would  magnify  its  office,  or  lessen  the 
claims  of  other  forms  of  imaginative  and  emotional 
expression.  "  The  glory  of  the  celestial  is  one,  and 
the  glory  of  the  terrestrial  is  another.  .  .  .'There  is 
one  glory  of  the  sun,  and  another  glory  of  the  moon." 
Nor  do  I  ask  you,  with  the  Scripture,  to  set  one 
above  the  other :  count  them  of  equal  rank,  if  you 
like,  —  as  in  truth  they  seem  to  be  in  a  time  which 
has  produced  not  only  "  In  Memoriam,"  "  Pippa 
Passes,"  "The  Problem,"  but  also  "A  Tale  of  Two 
Cities,"  "  Henry  Esmond,"  "  The  Scarlet  Letter,"— 
but  count  them  as  different.  Of  one  thing  I  am 
assured,  that  every  recognized  poet  will  claim  the 
vitality  of  this  difference  —  a  professional  claim, 
without  doubt,  but  not  as  though  made  by  a  lawyer 
or  a  divine,  since  their  professions  are  more  arbi- 
trary and  acquired.  I  confess  that  natural  aptitude 


56  WHAT  IS  POETRY? 

justifies  in  a  measure  the  expressions  "  a  born  law- 
yer," "a  born  doctor,"  etc.;  still,  more  of  what  we 
call  professional  skill  is  obtained  by  training  than  by 
derivation.  The  reverse  of  this  is  true  of  minstrelsy, 
and  thus  it  chances  that  for  a  thousand  excellent 
lawyers  you  shall  not  discover  one  superior  poet. 

It  is  not  essential  now,  when  the  trick  of  making 
Rhyme,  etc.  clever  verse  is  practised,  like  all  the  minor 
technics  of  decoration,  music,  and  so  on,  by  many 
more  or  less  cultured  persons  with  a  talent  for  mim- 
icry, to  discuss  historic  forms  of  measure,  and  to 
show  why  rhythm  is  not  confined  to  any  formal 
measures  rhymed  or  unrhymed.  Yet  even  rhyme, 
in  our  tongue,  has  advantages  apart  from  its  sound, 
when  so  affluent  and  strong  a  workman  as  Browning 
uses  it  in  some  of  his  most  extended  poems  as  a 
brake  on  the  whirl  and  rush  of  an  over-productive 
genius.  All  the  varied  potencies  of  rhythm,  —  its 
trinity  of  time-beat,  consonance,  and  assonance,  its 
repetends  and  refrains  and  accidental  wandering 
melodies  and  surprises,  —  are  the  vibrations  of  the 
poetic  fervor  made  manifest,  and  the  poet's  convey- 
ance of  it  to  his  listeners. 

Now,  we  have  seen  that  the  term  poetry  was  long 
imaginative  applied  to  all  imaginative  literature.  I 
prose  fiction:  recOgnize  the  fact  that  the  portion  of  it 
which  was  only  germinal  with  the  ancients,  but  is 
the  chief  characteristic  of  our  modern  age,  the  prose 
tale  or  romance,  —  that  this,  our  prose  fiction,  is 
equally  a  part  of  the  feigned  history  celebrated  by 


DISTINCT  FROM  PROSE  ROMANCE  $7 

Plato  and  Bacon  and  Sidney,  of  the  thing  creatively 
invented  rather  than  of  things  debated  or  recorded. 
It  is  often  imbued  with  the  true  spirit  of  poesy,  and 
is  almost  always  more  original  in  plot,  narrative, 
structure,  than  its  sister  art.  It  well  may  supply  the 
topic  for  a  series  of  discourses.  Among  the  bril- 
liant romancers  and  novelists  are  not  a  few  who, 
were  not  fiction  the  dominant  mode  of  our  time, 
would  possibly  have  wreaked  their  thoughts  upon 
expression  in  rhythmical  form.  But  to  how  it  is 

.  .  distinguished 

see  how  distinct  a  thing  it  is,  and  also  to  from  the 

T     e      i  i  •  poetry  under 

illustrate  my  belief  that  a  dramatic  poet  consideration, 
may  as  well  not  originate  his  own  narrative  or  plot, 
read  a  story  of  Boccaccio  or  a  chronicle  by  Holin- 
shed,  and  then  the  play  of  Shakespeare's  moulded 
upon  it.  The  masterly  novelist,  the  better  to  control 
his  plot  and  to  reflect  life  as  it  is,  keeps  his  personal 
emotion  within  such  command  that  it  fails  to  become 
rhythmical.  Where  it  gets  the  better  of  him,  and 
he  breaks  into  blank  verse  or  singsong,  his  work  is 
infallibly  weakened  ;  it  may  catch  the  vulgar  ear, 
but  is  distinctly  the  less  enduring.  Who  now  can 
abide  the  tricky  metrical  flow  of  certain  sentimental 
passages  in  Dickens  ?  And  Dickens,  by  the  way,  — 
nature's  own  child  and  marvellous,  as  in  truth  he 
was,  —  occasionally  set  himself  to  write  poetic  verse, 
but  he  knew  no  trick  of  it,  and  could  acquire  none. 
His  lyrics  were  mostly  commonplace.  This  was  to 
be  expected,  for  a  real  poet  usually  writes  good 
prose,  and  rarely  rhythmical  prose  as  prose,  though 


$8  WHAT  fS  POETRY? 


he  may  elect,  with  Macpherson,  Blake,  Tourgenieff, 
Emerson,  and  Whitman,  to  cast  his  poetry  in  rhyth- 
mical prose  form.  Thackeray,  who  was  a  charming 
poet,  of  a  light  but  distinct  quality  above  which  he 
was  too  genuine  to  venture,  put  no  metrics  into  his 
The  prose  of  novels.  See  how  definite  the  line  be- 
tween the  prose  and  the  verse  of  Milton, 
Goethe,  Landor,  Coleridge,  Byron.  Of  Emerson  I 
have  said  elsewhere  that  his  prose  was  poetry,  and 
his  poetry  light  and  air.  There  is  a  class  of  writers, 
of  much  account  in  their  day,  whose  native  or  pur- 
posed confusion  between  rhythmical  and  true  prose 
attracts  by  its  glamour,  and  whom  their  own  genera- 
tion, at  least,  can  ill  spare.  Of  such  was  Richter, 
"poetical"  anc*  such  in  a  measure  have  been  De  Quin- 
prose<  cey,  Wilson,  Carlyle,  and  even  Ruskin, 

each  after  his  kind.  The  strong  personality  of  a 
writer  forces  its  way.  But  it  is  to  be  noted  that 
these  after  a  time  fall  into  distrust,  as  if  the  lasting 
element  of  true  art  had  somehow  escaped  them. 
Certain  latter-day  lights  well  might  take  a  lesson 
from  the  past.  These  ilium inati  leave  firm  ground, 
but  do  they  rise  to  the  upper  air  ?  There  is  some- 
thing eerie  and  unsubstantial  about  them  as  they  flit 
in  a  moonlit  limbo  between  earth  and  sky.  Howbeit, 
they  are  what  they  are,  and  may  safely  plead  that  it 
is  more  to  be  what  they  can  be  than  not  to  be  at  all. 
The  difference  betwixt  poetical  prose  and  the  prose 
of  a  poet  is  exemplified  by  Mark  Pattison's  cita- 
tion of  the  two  at  their  best  —  the  prose  of  Jeremy 


SOME   THINGS  WHICH  IT  IS  NOT  59 

Taylor  and  that  of  Milton,  the  former  "  loaded  with 
imagery  on  the  outside,"  but  the  latter  "  colored  by 
imagination  from  within." 

In  short,  although  throughout  our  survey,  and 
especially  in  the  Orient,  the  most  imaginative 
poetry  often  chants  itself  in  rhythmic  prose,  the 
less  rhythm  there  is  in  the  prose  of  an  essayist  or 
novelist  the  better,  even  though  it  characterizes  an 
interlude.  As  a  drop  of  prosaic  feeling  is  said  to 
precipitate  a  whole  poem,  so  a  drop  of  sentimental 
rhythm  will  bring  a  limpid  tale  or  essay  to  cloudy 
effervescence.  As  for  eloquence,  which  E]oqueTlce 
also  was  classed  with  poetry  by  our  an-  rhetonc> etc- 
cestors,  and  which  is  subjective  and  passionate,  I  do 
not  say  that  it  may  not  rise  by  borrowing  wings ; 
but  in  a  poem  the  force  of  eloquence  pure  and  sim- 
ple cannot  be  prolonged  without  lessening  ideality 
and  the  subtlest  quality  of  all,  —  suggestiveness,  — 
and  rhetoric  is  as  false  a  note  as  didacticism  in  the 
poet's  fantasia. 

It  is  worth  while  to  observe,  in  passing,  that  there 
never  was  a  time  before  our  own  in  liter-  Modem 

cleverness 

ary  history  when  more  apparent  sue-  and  training, 
cesses,  more  curious  and  entertaining  works,  were 
achieved  by  determined  and  sincere  aspirants  who 
enter,  not  through  original  bent,  but  under  gradual 
training  and  "of  malice  aforethought,"  fields  to 
which  they  are  not  born  inheritors,  —  the  joint  do- 
mains of  poetry  and  prose  fiction.  Their  output 
deceives  even  the  critic,  because  it  does  serve  a 


60  WHAT  IS  POETRY? 

purpose,  until  he  reflects  that  none  of  it  is  really 
a  force,  —  really  something  new,  originative,  endur- 
ing. Such  a  force  was  that  of  Fielding,  of  Byron, 
of  Scott,  of  Keats,  of  Wordsworth,  of  Browning  ; 
and  many  lesser  but  fresh  and  natural  poets  and 
novelists  are  forces  in  their  several  degrees.  What 
they  produce,  from  its  individual,  often  revolution- 
ary, quality,  is  an  actual  addition  to  literature.  But 
we  see  natural  critics  and  moralists,  persons  of  learn- 
ing, of  high  cultivation  in  the  focal  centres  of  liter- 
ary activity,  who  develop  what  is  inborn  with  them 
—  an  exquisite  gift  of  appreciation,  and  in  time  a 
stalwart  purpose  to  rival  the  poets  and  novelists  on 
their  own  ground.  This  they  undertake  at  that 
mature  age  when  the  taste  and  judgment  are  fully 
ripe,  and  after  admirable  service  as  scholars,  essay- 
Nature's  ists>  and  the  like.  Now,  there  scarcely  is 
process.  an  ins|;ancej  in  the  past,  of  a  notable  poet 

or  romancer  who  •  did  not  begin,  however  late,  by 
producing  poetry  or  fiction,  however  crude,  and  this 
whether  or  not  he  afterward  made  excursions  into 
the  fields  of  analysis  or  history  or  aesthetics.  Mr. 
Howells  is  a  living  illustration  of  this  natural  pro- 
cess. He  began  as  a  poet,  and  then,  after  excur- 
sions into  several  literary  fields  that  displayed  his 
humor,  taste,  and  picturesqueness,  he  caught  the 
temper  of  his  period  as  a  novelist,  and  helped  to 
lead  it.  The  cleverness  and  occasional  "  hits "  of 
various  self-elected  poets  and  tale-writers  are,  how- 
ever, noteworthy,  even  bewildering.  At  this  mo- 


A   BIRTHRIGHT  INDISPENSABLE  6 1 

ment  many  who  command  public  attention  and  what 
is  called  the  professional  market  have  previously 
demonstrated  that  their  natural  bent  was  that  of 
didactic  and  analytic,  rather  than  of  emotional  and 
creative,  writers.  Their  success  has  been  a  triumph 
of  culture,  intellect,  and  will  power.  These  in- 
stances, as  I  have  said  of  an  eminent  cp.  "Victorian 

Poets  " :  pp. 

poet  and  essayist  now  no  more,  almost  91,442. 
falsify  the  adage  that  a  poet  is  born,  not  made. 
Still,  we  bear  in  mind  that  precisely  analogous  con- 
ditions obtain  in  the  cognate  artistic  professions,  — 
in  painting,  music,  architecture.  The  poets  and 
novelists  by  cultivation,  despite  their  apparent 
vogue  in  the  most  extended  literary  market  the 
world  has  ever  seen,  and  ambitious  as  their  work 
may  be,  lack,  in  my  opinion,  the  one  thing  needed 
to  create  a  permanent  force  in  the  arts,  and  that  is 
the  predestined  call  by  nature  and  certain  particles 
of  her  "  sacred  fire." 

We  need  not  enter  the  poet's  workshop  and  ana- 
lyze the  physics  and  philosophy  control-  «The  Science 
ling  the  strings  of  his  lyre.  That  a  philo-  °£Ver9e-" 
sophical  law  underlies  each  cadence,  every  structural 
arrangement,  should  be  known  in  this  very  spot,1  if 
anywhere,  where  not  alone  the  metrics  and  phonet- 
ics, and  what  has  been  called  the  rationale,  of  verse, 
but  therewithal  the  spirit  of  the  poetry  of  the  East, 
of  our  classical  antiquity,  of  the  Romance  tongues, 
of  the  Norse,  and  of  our  own  composite  era,  are  in 

1  Johns  Hopkins  University. 


62  WHAT  IS  POETRY? 

the  air,  one  may  say,  and  are  debated  with  a  learn- 
ing and  enthusiasm  for  which  a  few  of  us,  in  my  own 
academic  days,  hungered  in  vain.  Here,  too,  it  was 
that  the  most  analytic  treatise  ever  conceived,  upon 
the  technics  of  rhythmical  effect,  was  written  by 
Lanier.  your  own  poet,  Lanier,  for  whom  the 

sister-spirits  of  Music  and  Poesy  contended  with  a 
rivalry  as  strong  as  that  between  "  twin  daughters 
of  one  race,"  both  loving,  and  both  worshipped  by, 
one  whom  death  too  soon  removed  while  he  strove 
to  perfect  their  reconciliation.  Though  poetry  must 
come  by  the  first  intention,  if  at  all,  and  inspiration 
laughs  at  technical  processes,  even  the  unlettered 
minstrel  conforms  to  law,  as  little  conscious  of  it  as 
some  vireo  in  the  bush  is  conscious  of  the  score  by 
which  a  Burroughs  or  an  Olive  Miller  transfers  the 
songster's  tirra-lirra  to  the  written  page.  The  point 
remains  that  poetry  is  ideal  expression  through 
poetry,  words,  and  that  words  are  not  poetry 

above  all,  is 

utterance.  unless  they  reach  a  stress  that  is  rhyth- 
mical. Painting  is  a  mode  of  expression,  being  visi- 
ble color  and  shadow  distributed  upon  a  material 
surface ;  the  language  of  poetry  is  another  mode, 
because  it  is  articulate  thought  and  feeling.  Sidney 
pointed  merely  to  the  fact  that  rhythm  is  not  con- 
fined to  verse,  when  he  spoke  of  "  apparelled  verse  " 
as  "  an  ornament,  and  no  cause  to  poetry,  since  there 
have  been  many  most  excellent  poets  that  never 
have  versified "  ;  and  he  added  that  "  now  swarm 
many  versifiers  that  need  never  answer  to  the  name 


COMPARED    WITH  OTHER  ARTS  63 

of  poet."  Wordsworth's  familiar  recognition  of  "  the 
poets  that  ne'er  have  penned  their  inspiration  " 
was  a  just  surmise ;  but  such  a  poet  is  one  in  posse, 
assuredly  not  in  esse,  not  a  maker.  Swinburne  tra- 
verses the  passage  with  a  bit  of  common  sense  — 
"  There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  dumb  poet  or  a  hand- 
less  painter.  The  essence  of  an  artist  is  that  he 
should  be  articulate." 

Submitting  these  views  with  respect  to  a  scientific 
definition  of  poetry,  I  ask  your  attention  comparative 

,      .     .  .  ,  ...  .     review  of  the 

to  a  brief  consideration  of  its  bounds  and  Arts, 
liberties,  as  compared  with  those  of  music  and  the 
respective  arts  of  design. 

The  specific  province,  by  limitation,  of  Sculpture, 
the  art  consecrate  to  the  antique  precision  The  respective 
of  repose,  is  to  express  ideals  of  form  notations  of 
arrested  as  to  movement  and  time.  Its 
beauteous  or  heroic  attitudes  are  caught  at  the  one 
fit  moment,  and  forever  transfixed  in  rigid  stone  or 
wood  or  metal.  Painting  has  an  additional  Painting, 
limitation ;  it  gives  only  the  similitude  of  form  in  all 
its  dimensions,  and  only  from  one  point  of  a  behold- 
er's view.  To  offset  this,  the  range  of  the  painter  is 
marvellously  broadened  by  the  truth  of  perspective, 
the  magic  and  vital  potency  of  color,  the  tremulous 
life  of  atmosphere,  and  the  infinite  gradations  and 
contrasts  of  light  and  shade.  The  mystical  warmth 
and  force  of  the  Christian  humanities  are  radiant  in 
this  enrapturing  art.  Yet  its  office  is  to  capture  the 


64  WHAT  JS  POETRY? 

one  ideal  moment,  the  lifelong  desire  of  Faust,  and 
to  force  it  to  obey  the  mandate  :  — 

"  Ah,  still  delay  —  thou  art  so  fair !  " 

Such  are  the  arts  addressed  to  the  eye  alone,  both 
of  them  lending  their  service  to  the  earliest,  the 
latest,  the  most  various,  of  all  material  constructions 
Architecture,  —  Architecture,  whose  pediments  and 
roofs  and  walls  originate  in  our  bodily  necessities, 
whose  pinnacles  typify  our  worship  and  aspiration, 
and  which  so  soon  becomes  the  beneficiary  and  the 
incasement  of  its  decorative  allies.  None  of  the 
three  can  directly  express  time  or  movement,  but 
there  is  practically  no  limit  to  their  voiceless  repre- 
sentation of  space  and  multitude. 

But  movement  in  time   is  a  special   function  of 
Music.  Music,  that  heavenly  maid,  never  so  young 

as   now,  and    still   the   sovereign   of   the   passions, 
reaching  and  rousing  the  soul  through  sound-vibra- 
tions perpetually  changing  as  they  flow.     To  this  it 
..  adds  the  sympathetic  force  of   harmonic 

1  he  compos-  J       A 

freedom,"116  counterpoint.  Its  range,  then,  is  freer 
passive  than  that  of  the  plastic  and  structural 
arts,  by  this  element  of  progressive 
change.  Under  its  spell,  thrilling  with  the  sensa- 
tions which  it  can  excite,  and  which  really  are  imma- 
nent in  our  own  natures,  considering  moreover  the 
superb  mathematics  of  its  harmony,  and  again  that 
it  has  been  the  last  in  development  of  all  these  arts, 
we  question  whether  it  is  not  only  superior  to  them 


MUSIC   YEARNING  AYE  FOR  SPEECH      65 

but  even  to  that  one  to  which  these  lectures  are  de- 
voted. All  feel,  at  least,  the  force  of  Foe's  avowal 
that  music  and  poetry  at  their  highest  must  go 
together,  because  "in  music  the  soul  most  nearly 
attains  the  great  end  for  which  it  struggles  —  super- 
nal beauty."  And  so  old  John  Davies,  in  praise  of 
music, — 

"  The  motion  which  the  ninefold  sacred  quire 
Of  angels  make  :  the  bliss  of  all  the  blest, 
Which  (next  the  Highest)  most  fills  the  highest  desire." 

Schopenhauer  thought  that  the  musician,  because 
there  is  no  sound  in  nature  fit  to  give  him  more 
than  a  suggestion  for  a  model,  "approaches  the 
original  sources  of  existence  more  closely  than  all 
other  artists,  nay,  even  than  Nature  herself."  Her- 
bert Spencer  has  suggested  that  music  may  take 
rank  as  the  highest  of  the  fine  arts,  as  the  chief 
medium  of  sympathy,  enabling  us  to  partake  the 
feeling  which  excites  it,  and  "  as  an  aid  to  the 
achievement  of  that  higher  happiness  which  it  indis- 
tinctly shadows  forth."  And  in  truth,  if  the  inter- 
course of  a  higher  existence  is  to  be  effected  through 
sound-vibrations  rather  than  through  the  swifter 
light-waves,  or  by  means  of  aught  save  the  absolute 
celestial  insight,  one  may  fondly  conceive  music 
to  be  the  language  of  the  earth-freed,  as  of  those 
imagined  seraphim  with  whom  feeling  is  "deeper 
than  all  thought." 

Consider,  on  the  other  hand,  how  feeling  governs 
the  simple  child,  "that   lightly  draws   its   breath," 


66  WHAT  IS  POETRY? 

while  thought  begins  its  office  as  the  child  grows  in 
But  intellect-  strength  and  knowledge,  and  it  is  a  fair 

ual  Speech  is      .  .  . 

supreme.  inference  that  thought  is  the  higher  attri- 
bute, and  that  the  suggestion  of  emotion  by  music 
is  a  less  vital  art  than  that  of  intellectual  speech. 
The  dumb  brutes  partake  far  more  of  man's  emotion 
than  of  his  mental  intelligence.  '  Neither  is  music 
—  despite  our  latter-day  theorists  who  defy  the  argu- 
ment of  Lessing's  Laocoon  and  would  make  one  art 
usurp  the  province  of  another,  and  despite  its  power 
as  an  indirect  incentive  to  thought  by  rousing  the 
emotions  —  a  vehicle  for  the  conveyance  of  precise 
and  varied  ideas.  The  clearer  the  idea,  the  more 
exact  the  language  which  utters  and  interprets  it. 
This,  then,  is  the  obvious  limitation  of  music :  it 
can  traverse  a  range  of  feeling  that  may  govern  the 
tone  of  the  hearer's  contemplations,  it  can  "  fill  all 
the  stops  of  life  with  tuneful  breath "  and  prolong 
their  harmonic  intervals  indefinitely,  but  the  domain 
of  absolute  thought,  while  richer  and  more  imperial 
for  its  excitation,  is  not  mastered  by  it.  Of  that 
realm  music  can  make  no  exact  chart. 

Thus  far,  we  have  no  art  without  its  special  office, 
and  none  that  is  not  wanting  in  some  capacity  dis- 
played by  one  or  more  of  the  rest.  Each  goes  upon 
T.  .  .  its  appointed  way.  Now  comes  poetry, 

Limitations  J  J* 

of  the  poet.  — rhythmical,  creative  language,  compact 
of  beauty,  imagination,  passion,  truth,  —  in  no  wise 
related,  like  the  plastic  arts,  to  material  substance ; 
less  able  than  its  associate,  music,  to  move  the  soul 


ITS  POWERS  AND  LIMITATIONS  6/ 

with  those  dying  falls  of  sound  that  increase  and 
lessen  thought  and  the  power  to  harbor  it ;  almost  a 
voiceless  spirit  of  invention,  working  without  hands, 
yet  the  more  subtile,  potent,  inclusive,  for  this  eva- 
sive ideality,  and  for  creations  that  are  impalpable 
except  through  the  arbitrary  and  non-essential  sym- 
bols by  which  it  now  addresses  itself  to  the  educated 
eye. 

Permit  me  to  select,  almost  at  random,  from  Keats 
and  Tennyson,  ready  illustrations  of  the  bounds  and 
capabilities  of  the  various  arts  —  passages  necessa- 
rily familiar,  since  they  are  from  Keats  and  Tenny- 
son, but  chosen  from  those  masters  because,  of  all 
English  poets  since  Spenser,  they  are  most  given  to 
picture-making,  to  the  craft  that  is,  as  we  say,  artis- 
tic, picturesque.    A  stanza  from  the  "Ode  Howfarhe 
on  a  Grecian  Urn "  describes,  and  rivals  ™VStete 
in  verse,  the  ravishing  power  of  a  bit  of  sculpture- 
sculpture  to  perpetuate  arrested  form  and  attitude 
—  yes,  even  the  suggestion  of  arrested  music  :  — 

"  Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on  — 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear'd, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone. 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 

Though  winning  near  the  goal ;  yet,  do  not  grieve  — 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss ; 

Forever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair." 

These  undying  lines  not  only  define  by  words  the 


68  IV HA  T  IS  POETRY? 

power  and  limits  of  the  sculptor,  but  are  almost  a 
matchless  example  of  the  farthest  encroachment 
poetry  can  make  upon  sculpture's  own  province.1 
What  it  cannot  do  is  to  combine  the  details  of  the 
carving  so  as  to  produce  them  to  the  mind,  as  sculp- 
ture does  to  the  eye,  at  a  single  instant  of  time.  It 
lingers  exquisitely  upon  each  in  succession.  Pro- 
gressive time  is  required  for  its  inclusion  of  the 
effects  of  a  Grecian  frieze  or  scroll.  Now,  take 
His  picture,  from  Tennyson's  lovely  but  lighter  poem, 
making:  „ The  Day_Dream;»  _ a  ivrical  idyl  at  the 

acme  of  melodious  and  fanciful  picture-making,  —  a 
stanza  which  seems  to  match  with  a  certain  round- 
ness and  color  the  transfixing  effect  of  the  painter's 
handiwork.  It  portrays  a  group  entranced  by  the 
spell  that  has  doomed  to  a  hundred  years  of  abey- 
ance and  motionlessness  the  life  of  the  king's  palace 
and  the  Sleeping  Beauty.  In  the  poems  of  Keats 
and  Tennyson,  as  I  say,  artists  find  their  sculptures 
and  paintings  already  designed  for  them,  so  that 
these  poets  are  the  easiest  of  all  to  illustrate  with 
its  liberties  some  measure  of  adequacy.  The  theme 
and  bounds.  of  the  fonowing  imeS)  rendered  by  a 

painter,  would  show  the  whole  group  and  scene  at  a 
flash  of  the  eye ;  poetry  cannot  do  this,  yet,  aided 

1  Since  the  first  appearance  of  this  lecture  I  have  seen  a  finely  pen- 
etrative essay  by  Mr.  J.  W.  Comyns  Carr  (The  New  Quarterly  Maga- 
zine, October,  1875),  m  which  this  same  Ode  is  quoted  to  illustrate  the 
ideal  calm  sought  for  by  "The  Artistic  Spirit  in  Modern  Poetry."  As 
no  better  example  can  be  found,  in  conveyance  of  the  poetic  and  the 
plastic  methods  respectively,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  retain  it. 


POET  AND  PAINTER  69 

by  its  moving  panorama,  the  listener  has  painted  all 
in  his  mind  when  the  last  word  is  uttered :  — 

"  More  like  a  picture  seerneth  all 
Than  those  old  portraits  of  old  kings, 
That  watch  the  sleepers  from  the  wall. 

"  Here  sits  the  butler  with  a  flask 

Between  his  knees,  half-drain'd  ;  and  there 
The  wrinkled  steward  at  his  task, 

The  maid-of-honor  blooming  fair ; 
The  page  has  caught  her  hand  in  his : 

Her  lips  are  sever'd  as  to  speak : 
His  own  are  pouted  to  a  kiss : 

The  blush  is  fix'd  upon  her  cheek." 

It  is  to  be  noted,  as  we  read,  that  Tennyson's  per- 
sonages, and  those  of  Keats  as  well,  are  Artist-poets. 
mostly  conventional  figures,  as  characterless  as  those 
on  a  piece  of  tapestry.  The  genius  of  neither  poet 
is  preferably  dramatic  :  they  do  not  get  at  individu- 
ality by  dramatic  insight  like  Shakespeare,  nor  by 
monodramatic  soliloquy  and  analysis,  like  the  stren- 
uous Browning.  Their  dramas  are  for  the  most 
part  masques  containing  eidttllia  (little  pictures)  ; 
though  who  can  doubt  that  Keats,  had  he  lived, 
would  have  developed  the  highest  dramatic  power  ? 
Remember  what  the  less  sensuous,  more  lyrical 
Shelley  achieved  in  "The  Cenci,"  when  only  four 
years  beyond  the  age  at  which  Keats  imagined  his 
"  gold  Hyperion,  love  -  lorn  Porphyro."  The  poet  in- 
But,  to  resume,  see  what  poetry,  in  addi-  hit  command 

.  ,/-  .  of  vocal 

tion  to  the  foregoing  counterfeit  of   the  movement, 
painter's  ocular  presentment,  can  bring  about  in  its 


70  WHAT  IS  POETRY? 

own  field  through  its  faculty  of  movement  in  time  — 
a  power  entirely  wanting  to  the  arts  which  it  has 
just  mimicked.  Note  how  it  breaks  the  spell  of 
transfixed  attitude,  of  breathless  color  and  sus- 
pended action  ;  how  it  lets  loose  the  torrents  of  Life 
at  the  instant  of  the  "  fated  fairy  prince's  "  experi- 
mental kiss  :  — 

"  A  touch,  a  kiss !  the  charm  was  snapt. 

There  rose  a  noise  of  striking  clocks, 
And  feet  that  ran,  and  doors  that  clapt, 

And  barking  dogs,  and  crowing  cocks ; 
A  fuller  light  illumined  all, 

A  breeze  thro'  all  the  garden  swept, 
A  sudden  hubbub  shook  the  hall, 

And  sixty  feet  the  fountain  leapt. 

The  maid  and  page  renew'd  their  strife, 
The  palace  bang'd,  and  buzz'd,  and  clackt, 

And  all  the  long-pent  stream  of  life 
Dash'd  downward  in  a  cataract." 

That  is  the  stream  which  the  painter  has  no  art  to 
undam.  Only  by  a  succession  of  pictures  can  he 
suggest  its  motion  or  follow  the  romance  to  its  se- 
quel ;  and  that  he  can  do  even  this  with  some  fitness 
in  the  case  of  a  Tennysonian  ballad  is  because  the 
laureate,  as  we  see,  counterfeits  the  painter's  own 
method  more  artistically  than  other  idyllists  of  rank 
in  our  time.  If  art  is  the  fit  and  beautiful  confor- 
mation of  matter  infused  with  the  spirit  of  man,  it 
He  is  again  must  indeed  have  life.  The  most  nimble, 
ardent,  varied  transfer  of  the  vital  spirit 
is  by  means  of  language,  and  of  all  language  that  of 


the  poet  is  the  most  alive  and  expressive.  Observe, 
again,  that  in  what  are  called  art  circles  —  Arcadian 
groups  of  those  devoted  to  art  and  letters  —  the  im- 
aginative writers  are  apt  to  interest  themselves  far 
more  with  respect  to  the  plastic  arts  than  the  sculp- 
tors and  painters  with  respect  to  poetry  and  ro- 
mance ;  and  well  they  may,  since  the  poet  enriches 
his  work  by  using  all  artistic  effects,  while  nothing 
is  more  dangerous  to  a  painter,  for  example,  than 
that  he  should  give  his  picture  a  literary  cast,  as  the 
phrase  is,  and  make  it  too  closely  tell  a  story  or 
rehearse  a  poem.  This  of  itself  tends  to  confirm 
Lessing's  apothegm  that  "  the  poet  is  as  far  beyond 
the  painter  as  life  is  better  than  a  picture." 


THE  conquests  of  poetry,  in  fine,  are  those  of  pure 
intelligence,  and  of  emotion  that  is  unfet-  Final  analysis 
tered.  Like  the  higher  mathematics,  it  "thVSZf 
is  not  dependent  on  diagrams,  for  the  artSi 
mind  to  which  it  appeals  is  a  responsive  draughts- 
man of  lines  finer  and  more  complex  than  any 
known  to  brush  or  graver.  It  creates  no  beauty  of 
form  beyond  the  accidental  symbols  grouped  in 
script  and  print,  none  of  light  and  color,  while  the 
ear  is  less  touched  by  it  than  by  the  melodies  or 
harmonies  of  music ;  for  its  melody  is  that  of  flexi- 
ble speech,  and  it  knows  not  counterpoint,  but  must 
resort  to  the  value  of  successive  strains.  Yet  we 


72  WHAT  IS  POETRYf 

say  that  it  has  form  and  outline  of  its  own,  an  archi- 
tecture of  its  own,  its  own  warmth  and  color,  and, 
like  music,  life,  and  withal  no  little  of  music's  vocal 
charm,  in  that  through  words  it  idealizes  these 
"sweet  influences,"  and  is  chartered  to  convey  them 
all  to  the  inward  sight,  the  spiritual  hearing,  of  the 
citadeled  soul,  with  so  apt  suggestion  that  the  poet's 
fellow-mortals,  of  like  passions  and  perceptions  with 
himself,  see  and  hear  and  feel  with  much  of  his  dis- 
tinct individuality.  Its  vibrations  excite  the  reflex 
action  that  creates  in  the  mind  of  the  receiver  a 
vision  corresponding  to  the  imagination  of  the  poet. 
Here  is  its  specific  eminence  :  it  enables  common 
mortals  to  think  as  the  poet  thinks,  to  use  his  wings, 
move  through  space  and  time,  and  out  of  space  and 
time,  untrammelled  as  the  soul  itself ;  it  can  feel, 
moan,  weep,  laugh,  be  eloquent,  love,  hate,  aspire, 
for  all  —  and  with  its  maker ;  can  reflect,  and  know, 
and  ever  seek  for  knowledge  ;  can  portray  all  times 
and  seasons,  and  describe,  express,  interpret,  the 
hiddenmost  nature  of  man.  Through  poetry  soul 
addresses  soul  without  hindrance,  by  the  direct 
medium  of  speech.  Words  are  its  atmosphere  and 
very  being :  language,  which  raises  man  above  the 
speechless  intelligences ;  which,  with  resources  of 
pitch,  cadence,  time,  tone,  and  universal  rhythm,  is 
in  a  sense  a  more  advanced  and  complex  music  than 
music  itself  —  that  idealized  language  which,  as  it 
ever  has  been  the  earliest  form  of  emotional  ex- 
pression, appears  almost  a  gift  captured  in  man's 


THOUGHT  AND  FEELING  FREE  73 

infancy  from  some  "  imperial  palace  whence  he 
came."  To  the  true  poet,  then,  we  say,  like  the 
bard  to  Israfel : — 

"  The  ecstasies  above 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit  — 
Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 
With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute  — 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute." 


III. 

CREATION    AND   SELF-EXPRESSION. 

THE  difficulty  that  confronts  one  who  enters  upon 
a  general  discussion  of  poetry  is  its  uni-  The  radiant 
versal  range.  The  portals  of  his  obser-  dome" 
vatory  tower  before  him,  flashing  yet  frowning,  and 
inscribed  with  great  names  of  all  the  ages.  Mount 
its  stairway,  and  a  chart  of  the  field  disclosed  is  in- 
deed like  that  of  the  firmament.  In  what  direction 
shall  we  first  turn  ?  To  the  infinite  dome  at  large, 
or  toward  some  particular  star  or  group  ?  We  think 
of  inspiration,  and  a  Hebrew  seer  glows  in  the  pro- 
phetic East ;  of  gnomic  wisdom  and  thought,  and 
many  fixed  white  stars  shine  tranquilly  along  the 
equinox,  from  Lucretius  to  Emerson ;  of  tragedy 
and  comedy,  the  dramatic  coil  and  mystery  of  life, 
and  group  after  group  invites  the  lens, — for  us,  most 
of  all,  that  English  constellation  blazing  since  "  the 
spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth  "  ;  of  beauty,  and 
the  long  train  of  poetic  artists,  with  Keats  like  his 
own  new  planet  among  them,  swims  into  our  ken. 
Asia  is  somewhere  beyond  the  horizon,  and  in  view 
are  countless  minor  lights,  —  the  folk-singers  and 
minstrels  of  many  lands  and  generations. 

The  future  lecturer  will  have  the  satisfaction  of 


76          CREA  TION  AND  SELF-EXPRESSION 

giving  his  attention  to  a  single  master  or  school,  — 
to"  the  Greek  dramatists,  to  Dante,  or  Milton,  or 
Goethe  ;  more  than  one  will  expend  his  resources 
upon  the  mimic  world  of  Shakespeare,  yet  leave  as 
much  for  his  successors  to  accomplish  as  there  was 
before.  Their  privilege  I  do  not  assume ;  since 
these  initiatory  discourses  have  to  do  with  the  ele- 
ments of  which  poetry  is  all  compact,  and  with  the 
spirit  in  fealty  to  which  its  orbs  shine  and  have 
their  being  and  rehearse  the  burden  of  their  radi- 
ant progress  :  — 

"  Beneath  this  starry  arch 

Nought  resteth  or  is  still : 
But  all  things  hold  their  march, 

As  if  by  one  great  will : 
Moves  one,  move  all :  hark  to  the  footfall ! 
On,  on,  forever !  " 

Still,  I  wish  in  some  way  to  review  this  progress 
TWO  main        o*  poesy.     Essaying  then,  for  the   little 

div,sions.  that  can  be  done>  to  J0()k  first  at  fre  broa(J 

characteristics  of  the  field,  we  see  that  there  are,  at 
all  events,  two  streams  into  which  its  vast  galaxy  is 
divided,  —  though  they  intersect  each  other  again 
and  again,  and  in  modern  times  seem  almost 
blended.  These  do  not  relate  to  the  technical  clas- 
A  passing  sification  of  poetry :  to  its  partition  by 
esfabHshed0  the  ancients  into  the  epic,  dramatic,  lyric, 
and  the  idyllic,  —  unto  which  we  have 
added  the  reflective,  and  have  merged  them  all  in 
the  composite  structures  of  modern  art.  Time  has 
shown  that  we  cannot  overrate  the  method  of  those 


TWO  MAIN  STREAMS  OF  SONG  77 

intuitive  pagans.  No  one  cares  for  Wordsworth's 
division  of  his  own  verse  into  poems  of  imagination, 
of  fancy,  and  the  like,  the  truth  being  that  they  all, 
with  the  exception  of  a  few  spontaneous  lyrics,  are 
poems  of  reflection,  often  glorified  by  the  imagina- 
tion, sometimes  lightened  by  fancy,  but  of  whose 
predominant  spirit  their  author  was  apparently  the 
least  successful  judge.  The  Greeks  felt  that  the 
spirit  shapes  the  form  of  art,  and  therefore  is  re- 
vealed by  it.  Assume,  then,  the  fitness  of  poetic 
orders,  styles,  and  measures  ;  that  these  are  known 
to  you  and  me,  and  thus  we  may  leave  dactyls  and 
choriambs  to  the  metrical  anatomists,  and  rhymes  to 
the  Walkers  and  Barnums.  Passing  to  But  poetry 

s  either 


......  , 

the   more   essential   divisions   of    expres-  i 

or  self- 

sion,  you  will  find  their  types  are  defined  expressive. 
by  the  amount  of  personality  which  they  respec- 
tively hold  in  solution  :  that  poetry  is  differentiated 
by  the  Me  and  the  Not  Me,  —  by  the  poet's  self- 
consciousness,  or  by  the  representation  of  life  and 
thought  apart  from  his  own  individuality. 

That  which  is  impersonal,  and  so  very  great  at  its 
best,  appears  the  more  creative  as  being  a  statement 
of  things  discerned  by  free  and  absolute  vision.  The 
other  order  is  so  affected  by  relations  with  the  mak- 
er's traits  and  tastes  that  it  betokens  a  relative  and 
conditioned  imagination  ;  and  is  thus  by  far  the 
larger  division,  since  in  most  periods  it  is  inevitable 
that  the  chief  impulse  to  song  should  be  a  conscious 
or  unconscious  longing  for  personal  expression. 


78         CREATION  AND  SELF-EXPRESSION 

The  gift  of  unconditioned  vision  has  been  vouch- 
The  creative  safed  both  to  the  primitive  world,  and  to 
impersonal,  races  at  their  height  of  action  and  inven- 
tion. The  objective  masterpieces  of  poetry  consist, 
first,  of  those  whose  origin  is  obscure,  and  which 
are  so  naturally  inwrought  with  history  and  popular 
traits  that  they  seem  growths  rather  than  works  of 
art.  Such  are  the  Indian  epics,  the  Northern  sagas, 
the  early  ballads  of  all  nations,  and  of  course  the 
Homeric  poems  of  Greece.  These  are  the  lusty 
juventus  product  of  the  youth  of  mankind,  the 
song  and  story  that  come  when  life  is  un- 
jaded,  faith  unsophisticated,  and  human  nature  still 
in  voice  with  universal  Pan.  The  less  spontaneous 
but  equally  vital  types  are  the  fruit  of  later  and  con- 
structive periods,  —  "golden"  ages,  the  masterpieces 
of  which  are  composed  with  artistic  design  and  still 
unwearied  genius.  Whether  epic  or  dramatic,  and 
whether  traditional  or  the  product  of  schools  and 
nations  in  their  prime,  the  significance  of  objective 
poetry  lies  in  its  presentment  of  the  world  outside, 
and  not  of  the  microcosm  within  the  poet's  self. 
His  ideal  mood  is  that  of  the  Chinese  sage  from 
whose  wisdom,  now  twenty-six  centuries  old,  the 
artist  John  La  Farge,  himself  imbued  with  the 
spirit  of  the  "most  eastern  East,"  has  cited  for  me 
these  phrases  :  "  I  am  become  as  a  quiet  water,  or  a 
mirror  reflecting  what  may  be.  It  keeps  nothing,  it 
refuses  nothing.  What  it  reflects  is  there,  but  I  do 
not  keep  it :  it  is  not  I."  And  again  :  "  One  should 


THE  BALLAD  — THE  EPIC— THE  DRAMA      79 

be  as  a  vacuum,  so  to  be  filled  by  the  universe. 
Then  the  universe  will  fill  me,  and  pour  out  again." 
Which  dark  saying  I  interpret  here  as  an  emblem  of 
the  receptivity  of  the  artist  to  life  at  large.  This  it 
is  his  function  to  give  out  again,  illumined,  but  un- 
adulterate.  The  story  is  told,  the  song  chanted, 
the  drama  constructed,  with  the  simplest  of  under- 
standings between  audience  and  maker :  as  between 
children  at  their  play,  artisans  at  their  handicraft, 
recounter  and  hearers  around  the  desert  fire.  Every 
literature  has  more  or  less  of  this  free,  absolute 
poetry.  But  only  in  the  drama,  and  at  Early  and 

,.       .          .       ,          .  .          .  .      ,  ,  late  creative 

distinctively  imaginative  periods,  have  eras, 
poets  of  the  Christian  era  been  quite  objective ; 
not  even  there  and  then,  without  in  most  cases 
having  "  unlocked "  their  hearts  by  expression  of 
personal  feeling.  This  process  —  exemplified  in  the 
sonnets  of  Shakespeare,  and  in  the  minor  works 
of  Dante,  Tasso,  Cervantes,  Calderon,  Camoens  — 
rarely  suggested  itself  to  the  antique  poets,  whose 
verses  were  composed  for  the  immediate  verdict  of 
audiences  great  or  small,  and  in  the  Attic  period 
distinctly  as  works  of  art,  necessarily  universal,  and 
not  introspective.  Nor  would  much  self-intrusion 
then  have  been  tolerated.  Imagine  the  Homeric 
laughter  of  an  Athenian  conclave,  every  man  of 
them  with  something  of  Aristophanes  in  him,  at 
being  summoned  to  listen  to  the  sonnetary  sorrows 
of  a  blighted  lover  !  There  were  few  Werthers  in 
those  days.  Bad  poets,  and  bores  of  all  sorts,  were 


80          CREA  TION  AND  SELF-EXPRESSION 

not  likely  to  flourish  in  a  society  where  ostracism, 
the  custody  of  the  Eleven,  and  the  draught  of  hem- 
lock were  looked  upon  as  rather  mild  and  exemplary 
modes  of  criticism. 

Now,  in  distinction  from  unsophisticated  and  cre- 
The  subjective  atrve  song>  comes  the  voice  of  the  poet 
P061*  absorbed  in  his  own  emotions  and  depend- 

ent on  self-analysis  for  his  knowledge  %f  life.  Here 
is  your  typical  modern  minor  poet.  But  here  also 
are  some  of  the  truest  "  bards  of  passion  and  of 
pain  "  that  the  world  has  known.  Again,  there  are 
those  who  are  free  from  the  Parnassian  egoism,  but 
whose  manner  is  so  pronounced  that  every  word 
they  utter  bears  its  author's  stamp :  their  tone  and 
style  are  unmistakable.  Finally,  many  are  confined 
specialists.  implacably  to  certain  limits.  One  cares 
for  beauty  alone,  an  artist  pure  and  simple ;  another 
is  a  balladist ;  a  third  is  gifted  with  philosophic  in- 
sight of  nature ;  still  another  has  a  genius  for  the 
psychological  analysis  of  life.  Each  of  these  appears 
to  less  advantage  outside  his  natural  range.  The 
vision  of  all  these  classes  is  conditioned. 

An  obvious  limitation  of  the  speechless  arts  is 
Language  the  tnat  they  can  be  termed  subjective  only 
ofeseifmeans  with  respect  to  motive  and  style.  We 
expression.  haye  tlie  natural  iandscapist,  and  the  fig- 
ure-painter, while  nearly  all  good  painters,  sculptors, 
architects,  musicians,  are  recognizable,  as  you  know, 
by  their  respective  styles,  but  otherwise  all  arts, 
save  those  of  language,  are  relatively  impersonal  and 
objective. 


CONDITIONED   VOICES  8 1 

The  highest  faculties  of  vision  and  execution  are 
required  to  design  an  absolutely  objective  poem,  and 
to  insure  its  greatness.  There  is  no  middle  ground ; 
it  is  great,  or  else  a  dull  and  perfunctory  mechanism. 
The  force  of  the  heroic  epics,  whose  authorship  is 
in  the  crypt  of  the  past,  seems  to  be  not  that  of  a 
single  soul,  but  of  a  people ;  not  that  of  a  genera- 
tion, but  of  a  round  of  eras.  Yet  the  final  determi- 
nation of  poetic  utterance  is  toward  self-expression. 
The  minstrel's  soul  uses  for  its  medium  that  slave  of 
imaginative  feeling,  language.  It  is  a  voice  —  a 
voice ;  and  the  emotion  of  its  possessor  will  not  be 
denied.  The  poet  is  the  Mariner,  whose  heart  burns 
within  him  until  his  tale  is  told : 

"  I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land; 
I  have  strange  power  of  speech; 
That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 
I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me  : 
To  him  my  tale  I  teach." 

Races  themselves  have  a  bent  toward  one  of  the 
two  generic  types,  so  that  with  one  nation     Radal 
or  people  the  creative  poet  is  the  excep-     tendency- 
tion,  and  with  another  the  rule.     The  Asiatic  inspi- 
ration, even  in  its  narrative  legacies,  is  more  subjec- 
tively vague  than  that  which  we  call  the  antique  — 
that  of   the  Hellenes.     But   the  extreme     Asia. 
Eastern  field  requires  special  study,  and  is  beyond 
the  limits  of  this  course,  so  that  I  will  only  confess 
my  belief  that  much  of  our  fashionable  adaptation 


82          CREATION  AND  SELF-EXPRESSION 

of  Hindu,  Chinese,  Japanese  literatures  represents 
more  honestly  the  ethics  and  poetic  spirit  of  its 

A  .  .  Western  students  than  the  Oriental  feel- 
Attempts  to 

E^ddhfstcon-  mS  an<^  conceptions  ;  that  it  is  a  latter- 
cepnons.  ^y  illumination  of  Brahmanic  esoterics 
rather  than  the  absolute  Light  of  Asia, — whether 
better  or  worse,  not  a  veritable  transfer,  but  the 
ideal  of  Christendom  grafted  on  the  Buddhist  stock. 
It  is  doubtful,  in  fact,  whether  the  Buddhists  them- 
selves fully  comprehend  their  own  antiquities  ;  and 
if  our  learned  virtuosos,  from  Voltaire  and  Sir  Wil- 
liam Jones  to  Sir  Edwin  Arnold,  fail  to  do  so,  they 
nevertheless  have  found  the  material  for  a  good  deal 
of  interesting  verse.  It  will  be  a  real  exploit  when 
some  one  does  for  the  Buddhist  epos  and  legendary 
what  John  Payne  and  Captain  Burton  have  done  for 
the  Arabic  "Thousand  Nights  and  One  Night." 
Then  we  shall  at  least  know  those  literatures  as  they 
are ;  nor  will  it  be  strange  if  they  prove  to  be,  in 
some  wise,  as  much  superior  to  our  conception  of 
them  as  Payne's  rendering  of  the  "Arabian  Nights  " 
is  to  that  of  Galland,  or  as  Butcher  and  Lang's  prose 
translation  of  Homer  is  to  Lord  Derby's  verse.  Of 
such  a  paraphrase  as  Fitzgerald's  "  Rubaiyat  of 
Omar  Khayyam,"  one  at  once  declares,  in  Lander's 
phrase,  that  it  is  more  original  than  the  originals : 
the  Western  genius  in  this  instance  has  produced 
an  abiding  poem,  unique  in  its  interfusion  of  the 
Persian  and  the  neo-English  dispositions. 

But  with  Hebrew  poetry,  that  of   the  Bible,  we 


THE  ASIATIC  INSPIRATION  83 

have  more  to  do,  since  we  derive  very  closely  from 
it.  There  is  no  literature  at  once  so  grand  and 
so  familiar  to  us.  Its  inherent,  racial  The  Hebraic 
genius  was  emotional  and  therefore  lyrical  gemus' 
(though  I  am  not  with  those  who  deem  all  lyrical 
poetry  subjective),  and  a  genius  of  so  fiery  and  pro- 
phetic a  cast  that  its  personal  outbursts  have  a  lof- 
tiness beyond  those  of  any  other  literature.  The 
Hebrew  was,  and  the  orthodox  Israelite  remains,  a 
magnificent  egoist.  Himself,  his  past,  and  his 
future,  are  a  passion.  But  —  and  this  is  what  re- 
deems his  egoism  —  they  are  not  his  deepest  pas- 
sion ;  he  has  an  intenser  emotion  concerning  his 
own  race,  the  chosen  people,  a  more  ferveftt  devotion 
to  Jehovah,  —  his  own  Jehovah,  if  not  the  God  of  a 
universe.  Waiving  the  question  whether  the  ancient 
Jew  was  a  monotheist,  we  know  that  he  trusted  in 
the  might  of  his  own  God  as  overwhelmingly  supe- 
rior to  that  of  all  rivals.  His  God,  moreover,  was  a 
very  human  one.  But  the  Judaic  anthropomorphism 
was  of  the  most  transcendent  type  that  ever  hath 
entered  into  the  heart  of  man. 

I  do  not,  then,  class  the  Hebrew  poetry,  which, 
though  lyrical,  gives  vent  not  so  much  to  its  national 
the  self-consciousness  of  the  psalmist  or  exaltatlon- 
prophet  or  chieftain  as  to  the  pride  and  rapture  of 
his  people,  with  that  which  is  personal  and  relative, 
any  more  than  I  would  count  the  winged  Pindar  in 
his  splendid  national  odes,  or  even  his  patriotic  Gre- 
cian followers,  as  strictly  subjective,  however  lyrical 


84         CREATION  AND  SELF-EXPRESSION 

and  impassioned.  Such  bards  are  trumpet-tongued 
with  the  exaltation  of  their  time  and  country :  they 
speak  not  of  themselves,  but  for  their  people.  To 
the  burning  imagination  of  Moses  and  the  prophets, 
and  to  the  rhythmical  eloquence  of  the  Grecian  cele- 
brants, I  may  refer  when  noting  the  quality  of  inspi- 
ration. I  think  the  national  and  religious  utterance 
of  the  Hebrews  even  more  characteristic  than  their 
personal  outgivings  ;  they  were  carried  out  of  and 
intense  per-  '  above  themselves  when  moved  to  song, 
sonai  feeling.  But  there  ^  nQ  mQTQ  wonderful  poetry  of 

the  emotional  order  than  the  psalms  of  David  and 
his  compeers  relating  to  their  own  trials  and  agonies, 
their  loves  and  hates  and  adoration.  As  we  agonize 
and  triumph  with  a  supreme  lyrical  nature,  its  ego- 
ism becomes  holy  and  sublime.  The  stress  of  human 
feeling  is  intense  in  such  poetry  as  that  of  the  sixth 
Psalm,  where  the  lyrist  is  weary  with  groaning,  and 
waters  the  couch  with  his  tears,  exclaiming,  "  But 
thou,  O  Lord,  how  long  ? "  and  that  of  the  thir- 
teenth, when  he  laments  :  "  How  long  wilt  thou  for- 
get me,  O  Lord  ?  Forever  ? "  and  in  successive  per- 
sonal psalms  wherein  the  singer,  whether  David  or 
another,  avows  his  trust  in  the  Deity,  praying  above 
all  to  overcome  his  enemies  and  to  have  his  great- 
ness increased.  These  petitions,  of  course,  do  not 
reach  the  lyrical  splendor  of  the  psalms  of  praise 
and  worship  :  "  The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of 
God,"  "The  earth  is  the  Lord's  and  the  fulness 
thereof;"  and  those  of  Moses  —  "He  that  dwelleth 


POETRY  OF   THE  BIBLE  85 

in  the  secret  place  of  the  Most  High,"  and  its  imme- 
diate successors.  But  the  Hebrew,  in  those  strains 
where  he  communes  with  God  alone,  other  protec- 
tors having  failed  him,  is  at  the  climax  of  emotional 
song. 

Modern  self-expression  is  not  so  direct  and  simple. 
We  doubt  the  passion  of  one  who  wears  his  heart 
upon  his  sleeve.  The  naivete  of  the  Davidic  lyre  is 
beyond  question,  and  so  is  the  superb  unrestraint 
of  the  Hebrew  prophecy  and  paeans.  We  feel  the 
stress  of  human  nature  in  its  articulate  moods.  This 
gives  to  the  poetry  of  the  Scriptures  an  Subjectivei  yet 
attribute  possessed  only  by  the  most  crca-  umversal- 
tive  and  impersonal  literature  of  other  tongues, — 
that  of  universality.  Again,  it  was  all  designed  for 
music,  by  the  poets  of  a  musical  race;  and  the  psalms 
were  arranged  by  the  first  composers,  —  the  leaders 
of  the  royal  choir.  It  retains  forever  the  fresh  tone 
of  an  epoch  when  lyrical  composition  was  the  nor- 
mal form  of  expression.  Then  its  rhythm  is  free, 
unrestrained,  in  extreme  opposition  to  that  of  clas- 
sical and  modern  verse,  relying  merely  upon  anti- 
phony,  alliteration,  and  parallelism.  Technical  aban- 
don, allied  with  directness  of  conception  and  faithful 
revelation  of  human  life,  makes  for  universality ; 
makes  of  the  Hebrew  Scriptures  a  Bible,  a  world's 
book  that  can  be  translated  into  all  tongues  with 
surpassing  effect,  notably  into  a  language  almost  as 
direct  and  elemental  as  its  own,  that  of  our  Anglo- 
Saxon  in  its  Jacobean  strength  and  clarity. 


86         CREATION  AND  SELF-EXPRESSION 

Advancing  further,  you  perceive  that  where  a 
work  survives  as  an  exception  to  the  inherent 
The  Book  temper  of  a  people,  it  is  likely  to  exhibit 
greatness.  The  sublimest  poem  of  an- 
tiquity is  impersonal,  yet  written  in  the  Hebrew 
tongue.  The  book  of  Job,  the  life-drama  of  the 
Man  of  Uz,  towers  with  no  peak  near  it  ;  its  author- 
ship lost,  but  its  fable  associated  in  mind  with 
the  post-Noachian  age,  the  time  when  God  dis- 
coursed with  men  and  the  stars  hung  low  in  the 
empyrean.  It  is  both  epic  and  dramatic,  yet  em- 
bodies the  whole  wisdom  of  the  patriarchal  race. 
Who  composed  it  ?  Who  carved  the  Sphinx,  or  set 
the  angles  of  the  Pyramids  ?  The  shadow  of  his 
name  was  taken,  lest  he  should  fall  by  pride,  like 
Eblis.  The  narrative  prelude  to  Job  has  the  direct 
epic  simplicity,  —  a  Cyclopean  porch  to  the  temple, 
but  within  are  Heaven,  the  Angels,  the  plumed  Lord 
of  Evil,  before  the  throne  of  a  judicial  God.  The 
personages  of  the  dialogue  beyond  are  firmly  distin- 
guished :  Eliphaz,  Bildad,  Zophar,  Elihu,  —  to  whom 
the  inspiration  of  the  Almighty  gave  understanding, 
—  and  the  smitten  protagonist  himself,  majestic  in 
ashes  and  desolation.  Each  outvies  the  other  in 
grandeur  of  language,  imagination,  worship.  Can 
there  be  a  height  above  these  lofty  utterances  ? 
Yes  ;  only  in  this  poem  has  God  answered  out  of  the 
whirlwind,  his  voice  made  audible,  as  if  an  added 
range  of  hearing  for  a  space  enabled  us  to  compre- 
hend the  reverberations  of  a  superhuman  tone.  I 


THE  GRECIAN  LYRE  87 

speak  not  now  of  the  motive,  the  inspiration,  of  the 
symphonic  masterpiece ;  it  is  still  a  mortal  creation, 
though  maintaining  an  impersonality  so  absolute  as 
to  confirm  our  sense  of  mystery  and  awe. 

It  has  been  said  of  the  Hebrew  language  that  its 
every  word  is  a  poem  ;  and  there  are  books  of  the 
Old  Testament,  neither  lyrical  nor  prophetic,  so  ex- 
quisite in  kind  that  I  call  them  models  of  impersonal 
art.  Considered  thus,  the  purely  narrative  idyls  of 
Esther  and  Ruth  have  so  much  significance  that  I 
shall  have  occasion  to  recur  to  them  with  reference 
to  poetic  beauty  and  construction. 

Turning  from  Semitic  literature  to  the  Aryan 
in  its  Hellenic  development,  we  at  once  Greece, 
enter  a  naturally  artistic  atmosphere.  Until  after 
his  Attic  prime,  the  Greek,  with  no  trick  of  intro- 
spection, concerned  himself  very  little  about  his  in- 
dividual pathology,  being  far  too  much  absorbed 
with  an  inborn  sense  of  beauty,  and  with  his  office 
of  imaginative  creation.  His  great  lyri-  Theorists, 
cal  poets  —  Alcaeus,  Simonides,  Pindar  —  rehearsed, 
as  I  have  said,  the  spirit  of  a  people  rather  than  of 
themselves.  As  with  the  Hebrews,  but  conversely, 
the  few  exceptions  to  this  usage  were  very  notable, 
else  they  could  not  have  arisen  at  all.  One  extrem- 
ity of  passion  for  which,  in  their  sunlit  life,  they 
found  expression  compulsive,  was  that  of  love ;  and 
among  those  who  sang  its  delights,  or  lamented  its 
incompleteness,  we  have  the  world's  accepted  type  in 


88        CREATION  AND  SELF-EXPRESSION 

Love's  priestess  of  Mitylene,  the  "  violet-crowned, 
pure,  sweetly  smiling  Sappho."  The  pity  of  it  is 
Sappho.  that  we  have  only  the  glory  of  her  name, 
celebrated  by  her  contemporaries  and  successors, 
and  justified  to  us  by  two  lyrics  in  the  stanzaic 
measure  of  her  invention,  and  by  a  few  fragments 
of  verse  more  lasting  than  the  tablets  of  the  Par- 
thenon. But  the  "  Hymn  to  Aphrodite "  and  the 
<E>aiWdi  fwi  KTJVOS  are  enough  to  assure  us  that  no 
other  singer  has  so  united  the  intensity  of  passion 
with  charm  of  melody  and  form.  A  panting,  living 
woman,  a  radiant  artist,  are  immanent  in  every  verse. 
After  twenty-five  centuries,  Sappho  leads  the  choir 
of  poets  that  have  sung  th  eir  love ;  and  from  her 
time  to  that  of  Elizabeth  Browning  no  woman  has 
so  distinguished  her  sex.  The  Christian  sibyl  moved 
in  a  more  ethereal  zone  of  feeling,  but  could  not 
equal  her  vEgean  prototype  in  unerring  art,  al- 
though, by  the  law  of  true  expression,  most  artistic 
where  she  is  most  intense. 

The  note  which  we  call  modern  is  frequent  in  the 
classical  dramas  of  Euripides,  and  in  those  of  his 
o*?IeiTng.  satirist,  Aristophanes  ;  it  drifts,  in  minor 
waves  of  feeling,  with  the  lovely  Grecian  epitaphs 
and  tributes  to  the  dead,  —  that  feeling,  the  breath  of 
personal  art,  which  Mahaffy  illustrates  from  the  bas- 
reliefs  and  mortuary  emblems  which  beautify  the 
tombs  west  of  Athens.  The  Greek  anthology  is 
rich  with  sentiment  of  this  cast,  so  pathetic  —  and 
so  human.  As  an  instance  of  what  I  mean,  let  me 


IDYLLIC  SENTIMENT  89 

repeat  Cory's  imitation  of  the  elegiacs  of  Callima- 
chus  on  his  friend  Heracleitus  :  — 

"  They  told  me,  Heracleitus,  they  told  me  you  were  dead,  — 
They  brought  me  bitter  news  to  hear  and  bitter  tears  to  shed. 
I  wept,  as  I  remembered  how  often  you  and  I 
Had  tired  the  sun  with  talking  and  sent  him  down  the  sky. 

"And  now  that  thou  art  lying,  my  dear  old  Carian  guest, 
A  handful  of  gray  ashes,  long,  long  ago  at  rest, 
Still  are  thy  pleasant  voices,  thy  nightingales,  awake, 
For  Death  —  he  taketh  all  away,  but  them  he  cannot  take." 

This,  to  be  sure,  is  a  paraphrase,  yet  it  conveys  the 
feeling  better  than  the  more  compact  version  by  the 
poet-scholar  Andrew  Lang.  Nothing  can  exceed,  in 
its  expression  of  the  spirit,  Mr.  Lang's  handling  of 
Meleager's  verses  to  the  memory  of  his  loved  and 
lost  Heliodora :  — 

"  Tears  for  my  lady  dead, 

Heliodore ! 

Salt  tears,  and  strange  to  shed, 
Over  and  o'er." 

But  I  quote  no  more  of  this  melody,  since  you  can 
find  it,  in  a  certain  romance  of  "  Cleopatra,"  shining 
by  contrast  with  much  of  that  story  like  the  (f  jewel 
in  an  Ethiope's  ear."  Others  of  Mr.  Lang's  elusive, 
exquisite  renderings,  done  as  it  seems  by  the  first 
touch,  are  incomparable  with  any  lyrical  exploits  of 
their  kind  since  "Music's  wing"  was  folded  in  the 
dust  of  Shelley. 

Follow  the  twilight  path  of  elegiac  verse  to  the 
Alexandrian  epoch,  and  you  find  the  clear  Athenian 
strain  succeeded  by  a  compound  of  artifice  and 


90         CREATION  AND  SELF-EXPRESSION 

nature,  so  full  of  sentiment  withal  as  to  seem  the 
The  Greek  forerunner  of  Christian  art,  —  in  some 
idyihsts.  respects  the  prototype  of  our  own  idyllic 
poetry.  The  studiously  impassioned  lament  of  Mos- 
chus  for  Bion  is  nearer  than  the  poetry  of  his  dead 
master,  and  of  that  master's  master,  Theocritus  (al- 
ways excepting  the  latter's  "  Thalysia  "),  to  our  own 
modes  of  feeling  and  treatment.  It  set  the  key  for 
our  great  English  elegies,  from  Spenser's  "Astro- 
phel"  and  Milton's  "Lycidas"  to  Shelley's  "Ado- 
nais  "  and  Arnold's  lament  for  Clough.  The  subjec- 
tivity of  the  Greek  idyllists  is  thus  demonstrated. 
They  were  influenced  largely  by  the  Oriental  feeling, 
alike  by  its  sensuousness  and  its  solemnity,  and  at 
times  they  borrowed  from  its  poets, —  as  in  the  trans- 
fer by  Moschus  of  a  passage  from  Job  into  his  Dorian 
hexameters,  of  which  I  will  read  my  own  version  :  — 

"  Even  the  mallows  —  alas  !  alas  !  when  once  in  the  garden 

They,  or  the  pale-green  parsley  and  crisp-growing  anise,  have  perished, 

Afterward  they  will  live  and  flourish  again  at  their  season ; 

We,  the  great  and  brave,  and  the  wise,  when  death  has  benumbed  us, 

Deaf  in  the  hollow  ground  a  silent,  infinite  slumber 

Sleep :  forever  we  lie  in  the  trance  that  knoweth  no  waking." 


We  pass  with  something  like  indifference  to  the 
Latin  Latin  poets,  because  their  talent,  in  spite 

sentiment.        of   manv  nQ^Q  legacies   bequeathed   us, 

so  lacked  the  freedom,  the  originality,  the  inimitable 
poetic  subtilties  which  animated  everything  that  was 
Grecian.  Hellas  was  creative  of  beauty  and  inspi- 


VERGILIAN  STYLE  91 

ration  ;  Italia,  too,  was  a  creative  soil,  but  of  gov- 
ernment, empire,  law.  Her  poetry,  as  it  was  less 
an  impulse  and  more  a  purpose,  belongs  largely  to 
the  mixed  class.  In  its  most  objective  portions 
there  is  an  air  of  authorship  and  self-expression.  I 
will  not  speak  now  of  Lucretius,  who  sends  out  the 
one  dauntless  ray  of  contemplative  splendor  between 
the  Hebraic  sages  and  the  seers  of  our  new  dispen- 
sation. But  Vergil  is  a  typical  example  Vergil. 
of  the  poet  whose  style  is  so  unmistakable  that  every 
verse  overflows  with  personal  quality,  —  a  style  that 
endures,  establishes  a  pupilage.  Vergil  borrowed 
fire  from  Greece  to  light  the  altars  of  beauty  in  a 
ruder  land.  The  Iliad  and  Odyssey  kindled  the 
invention  and  supplied  the  construction  of  his 
^Eneids ;  the  Georgics,  his  sturdiest  cantos,  took 
their  motive  from  Hesiod  ;  the  Eclogues  are  a  para- 
phrase upon  Theocritus.  But  the  Mantuan's  style 
is  preeminently  his  own,  —  the  limpid,  liquid,  sweet, 
steadfast  Vergilian  intonation  on  which  monarchs 
and  statesmen  hung  enchanted,  and  which  was  con- 
fessedly the  parent-voice  of  many  an  after  bard. 
Tennyson,  in  point  of  a  style  whose  qual-  H;S  modem 

.,        •       .1  j-i-  r          •  t.        v  cc       •  countertypes. 

ity  is  the  more  distinct  for  its  diffusive 
ness,  —  whose  potency,  to  borrow  the  homoeopathic 
term,  is  the  greater  for  its  perfect  trituration,  —  has 
been  the  English  Vergil  of  our  day.  Browning's 
trade-mark  is,  plainly,  the  antithesis  of  what  I  here 
mean  by  style.  Our  own  Longfellow  furnishes  the 
New  World  counterpart  of  Vergil.  In  the  ascetic 


Q2        CREATION  AND  SELF-EXPRESSION 

and  prosaic  America  of  his  early  days  he  excited  a 
feeling  for  the  beautiful,  borrowing  over  sea  and 
from  all  lands  the  romance-forms  that  charmed  his 
countrymen  and  guided  them  to  taste  and  invention. 
His  originality  lay  in  the  specific  tone  that  made 
whatever  Longfellow's  sweet  verse  rehearsed  a  new 
song,  and  in  this  wise  his  own.  Mentioning  these 
leaders  of  to-day  only  to  strengthen  my  reference 
te  Vergil,  —  and  as  illustrating  Schlegel's  point  that 
"what  we  borrow  from  others,  to  assume  a  true 
poetical  shape,  must  be  born  again  within  us,"  -  -  I 
Ovid  may  add  that  there  is  a  good  deal  of  per- 

catuiius,  etc.  sonai  feeling  and  expression  in  the  Latin 
epigrammatists  and  lyrists.  We  have  Ovid  with 
his  Tristia  of  exile,  and  Catullus  with  his  Sapphic 
grace  and  glow,  and  a  Latin  anthology  of  which  the 
tenderest  numbers  are  eloquent  of  grief  for  lover 
and  friend  gone  down  to  the  nebulous  pagan  under- 
world. The  deaths  that  touched  them  most  were 
those  of  the  young  and  dear,  cut  off  with  their  lives 
unlived,  their  promise  of  grace  and  glory  brought  to 
naught.  Both  the  Greeks  and  the  Latins,  in  their 
joy  of  life,  strongly  felt  the  pathos  of  this  earthly 
infruition.  That  famous  touch  of  Vergil's,  in  the 
A  touch  of  sixth  yEneid,  was  not  all  artifice:  the 
passage  in  which  JEneas  sees  a  throng 
of  shades  awaiting  their  draught  of  Lethe  and  re- 
incarnation in  the  upper  world,  —  and  among  them 
the  beauteous  youthful  spirit  that  in  time  will  be- 
come Marcellus,  son  of  the  Emperor's  sister  Octavia, 


"TU  MARCELLUS  ERIS"  93 

and  heir  to  the  throne  of  the  Caesars.  Every  school- 
boy, from  the  poet's  day  to  the  present,  knows  how 
this  touch  of  nature  made  Vergil  and  his  imperial 
listeners  kin  :  — 

"  Heu,  miserande  puer  !  si  qua  fata  aspera  rumpas, 
Tu  Marcellus  eris.     Manibus  date  lilia  plenis, 
Purpureos  spargam  flores." l 

From  the  consecrating  beauty  of  the  Latin  verse,  in 
a  new  world  and  after  nineteen  centuries,  is  derived 
the  legend — Manibus  date  lilia  plenis — of  an  Amer- 
ican hymn  for  Decoration  Day.  Out  of  the  death  of 
a  youth  as  noble  and  gracious,2  in  whom  centred  lim- 
itless hopes  of  future  strength  and  joy,  the  spirit  of 
poetry  well  may  spring  and  declare  —  as  from  yonder 
tablet  in  this  very  place  3  —  that  his  little  life  was 
not  fruitless,  and  that  its  harvest  shall  be  perennial. 
A  passing  reference  may  be  made  at  this  point 
to  a  class  of  verse  elegantly  produced  in  The  Horatu. 
various  times  of  culture  and  refinement :  the  hearty 
overflow  of  the  taste,  philosophy,  good-fellowship, 
especially  of  the  temperament,  of  its  immediate 
maker.  Thus  old  Anacreon  started  off,  that  Parisian 
of  Teos.  When  you  come  to  the  Latin  Horace,  who 
like  Vergil  took  his  models  from  the  Greek,  you 
have,  above  all,  the  man  himself  before  you  :  the 

1  "Ah,  dear  lamented  boy !  if  thou  canst  break  fate's  harsh  decrees, 
thou  wilt  be  our  own  Marcellus.    Bring  lilies  in  handfuls;  let  me  strew 
the  purple  flowers !  " 

2  Percy  Graeme  Turnbull :  born  May  28,  1878 ;  died  February  12, 
1887. 

*  Levering  Hall,  Johns  Hopkins  University. 


94        CREATION  AND  SELF-EXPRESSION 

progenitor  of  an  endless  succession,  in  English  verse, 
of  our  Swifts  and  Priors  and  Cannings  and  Dobsons, 
of  our  own  inimitable  Holmes.  There  are  feeling 
and  fancy,  and  everything  wise  and  witty  and  charm- 
ing, in  the  individuality  of  these  Horatii ;  they  give 
us  delightful  verse,  and  human  character  in  sunny 
and  wholesome  moods.  One  secret  of  their  attract- 
iveness is  their  apt  measurement  of  limitations ; 
they  have  made  no  claim  to  rank  with  the  great  im- 
aginative poets  who  supply  our  loftier  models  and 
illustrations. 

Return  for  a  moment  to  that  creative  art  which  is 
Absolutely  found  in  early  narrative  poetry  and  the 
creative  song,  true  drama.  The  former  escapes  the  pale 
cast  of  thought  through  the  conditions  of  its  forma- 
Primitive  tion  and  rehearsal.  Primitive  ballads  have 
a  straightforward  felicity ;  many  of  them 
a  conjuring  melody,  as  befits  verse  and  music  born 
together.  Their  gold  is  virgin,  from  the  rock  strata, 
and  none  the  better  for  refining  and  burnishing. 
No  language  is  richer  in  them  than  the  English. 
Our  traditional  ballads,  such  as  "  Clerk  Saunders," 
"Burd  Ellen,"  "Sir  Patrick  Spens,"  " Chevy-Chace," 
"  Edward  !  Edward  !  "  usually  are  better  poetry  than 
those  of  known  authorship.  Not  until  you  come  to 
Drayton's  "Agincourt"  do  you 'find  much  to  rival 
them.  What  I  say  applies  to  the  primitive  ballads 
of  all  nations.  Touch  them  with  our  ratiocination, 
and  their  charm  vanishes.  The  epos  evolved  from 


HOMER  95 

such   folk  -  songs   has   the   same   directness.       The 
rhythm  of  its  imagery  and  narrative,  swift  Eplcmagteri 
and  strong  and  ceaseless  as  a  great  river,  pieces> 
would  be  sadly  ruffled  by  the  four  winds  of  a  min- 
strel's self-expression, —  its  current  all  set  back  by 
his  emotional  tides, 

"  The  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn, 
The  love  of  love." 

The  modern  temper  is  not  quick  to  apprehend  a 
work  of  simple  beauty  and  invention.  It  presup- 
poses, judging  from  itself,  underlying  motives  even 
for  the  legends  and  matutinal  carols  of  a  young  peo- 
ple. Age  forgets,  and  fails  to  understand,  the  heart 
of  childhood ;  we  "  ancients  of  the  earth  "  miscon- 
ceive its  youth.  We  even  class  together  the  litera- 
tures of  races  utterly  opposed  in  genius  and  disposi- 
tion. Some  would  put  the  Homeric  epos  The  Homeric 
on  the  same  footing  with  the  philosophi-  epo9' 
cal  drama  of  Job,  the  end  of  which  is  avowedly  "  to 
justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men."  Professor  Sni- 
der, who  has  exploited  well  the  ethical  scheme  of 
"  Faust,"  would  similarly  deal  with  the  Iliad  and  the 
Odyssey.  Homer,  he  thinks,  had  in  mind  a  grand 
exposition  of  Providence,  divine  rule,  the  nature  of 
good  and  evil,  and  so  forth,  in  relation  to  which  the 
narrative  and  poetry  of  those  epics  are  subordinate 
and  allegorical.  But  why  should  we  reason  too  curi- 
ously ?  Both  instinct  and  common  sense  are  against 
it.  Whether  the  Homeric  epos  was  a  growth,  or 
an  originally  synthetic  creation,  I  believe  that  the 


96        CREATION  AND  SELF-EXPRESSION 

legends  of  the  glorious  Ionian  verse  were  recited 
its  direct  and  for  the  delight  of  telling  and  hearing; 
joyous  motive.  that  the  unrestingf  untiring,  billowy  hex- 
ameters were  intoned  with  the  unction  of  the  bard  ; 
that  they  do  convey  the  ancestral  reverence,  the 
religion,  the  ethics,  of  those  adventurous  daedal 
Greeks,  but  simply  as  a  consequence  of  their  spon- 
taneous truth  and  vitality.  Their  poets  sang  with 
no  more  casuistic  purpose  than  did  the  nightingales 
in  the  grove  of  Colonos.  Hence  their  directness, 
and  their  unconscious  transmission  of  the  Hellenic 
system  of  government  and  worship.  If  you  wish 
instruction,  everything  is  essentially  natural  and 
true.  A  perfect  transcript  of  life  —  the  best  of 
teachers  —  is  before  us.  In  the  narrative  books  of 
the  Bible  the  good  and  bad  appear  without  disguise. 
All  is  set  forth  with  the  frankness  that  made  the 
heart  of  the  Hebrew  tent-dweller  the  heart  of  the 
world  thereafter.  In  Homer,  the  deities  are  drama- 
tis persona,  very  human,  with  sovereign  yet  terres- 
trial passions  ;  they  dwell  like  feudal  lords,  slightly 
above  their  dependents,  alternating  between  con- 
tempt for  them  and  interest  in  their  affairs.  But 
immortal  where  is  the  healthy  man  or  boy  who 
uT^outoV"6  reads  these  epics  without  an  absorption 
in  their  poetry  and  narrative  that  is  the 
clew  to  their  highest  value  ?  I  have  little  patience 
with  the  critics  who  would  disillusionize  us.  What 
is  the  use  of  poetry  ?  Why  not,  in  this  workaday 
world,  yield  ourselves  to  its  enjoyment?  Homer 


THE  ATTIC  PRIME  97 

makes  us  forget  ourselves  because  he  is  so  self-for- 
getful. He  accepts  unquestioningly  things  as  they 
are.  The  world  has  now  grown  hoary  with  specula- 
tion, but  at  times,  in  art  as  in  religious  faith,  except 
ye  be  as  children  ye  cannot  enter  into  the  kingdom. 
We  go  back  to  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey,  to  the 
creative  romance  and  poesy  of  all  literatures,  as 
strong  men  wearied  seek  again  the  woods  and  waters 
of  their  youth,  for  a  time  renewing  the  dream  which, 
in  sooth,  is  harder  to  summon  than  to  dispel.  Such 
a  renewal  is  worth  more  than  any  moral,  when  fol- 
lowing the  charmed  wanderings  of  the  son  of  Laer- 
tes, by  isle  and  mainland,  over  the  sea  whose  waters 
still  are  blue  and  many-voiced,  but  whose  mystic 
nymphs  and  demigods  have  fled  forever ;  it  is  worth 
more  than  a  philosophy, 

"  When  the  oars  of  Ithaca  dip  so 

Silently  into  the  sea 
That  they  wake  not  sad  Calypso, 

And  the  hero  wanders  free. 
He  breasts  the  ocean  furrows 

At  war  with  the  words  of  fate, 
And  the  blue  tide's  low  susurrus 

Comes  up  to  the  Ivory  Gate." 

The  dramas  of  the  Attic  prime,  although  equally 
objective  with   these   epics,   are    superb  TheGreek 
poetry,  with   motives   not   only   creative  Dramatists- 
but   distinctly  religious   and   ethical.     They  recog- 
nize and  illustrate  the  eternal  law  which  brings  a 
penance  upon  somebody  for  every  wrong,  the  in- 


98        CREA  TION  AND  SELF-EXPRESSION 

scrutable  Nemesis  to  which  even  the  Olympian 
gods  are  subject.  In  this  respect  the  "  Prometheus 
Bound,"  deathless  as  the  Titan  himself,  is  the  first 
and  highest  type  of  them  all.  The  chorus,  the  major 
and  minor  personages,  the  prophetic  demigod,  and 
even  the  ruthless  Zeus,  take  for  granted  the  power 
of  a  righteous  Destiny.  The  wrong-doer,  whether 
guilty  by  chance  or  by  will,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
"  OEdipus  Tyrannus  "  of  Sophocles,  even  pro- 
nounces and  justifies  his  own  doom.  I  will  not 
now  consider  the  grandeur  of  these  wonderful 
productions.  Through  the  supremer  endurance  of 
poetry  they  have  come  down  to  us,  while  the  pic- 
tures of  Zeuxis  and  Apelles,  and  the  "  Zeus  "  and 
"  Athene  "  of  Pheidias,  are  but  traditions  of  "  the 
glory  that  was  Greece."  The  point  I  make  is  that 
Their  absolute  these  are  absolute  dramas.  They  are 
quality.  richly  freighted,  like  Shakespeare's,  with 

oracles  and  expositions ;  but  their  inspired  wisdom 
never  diverts  us  from  the  high  inexorable  progress 
of  the  action.  It  is  but  a  relief  and  an  adjuvant. 
You  may  learn  the  bent  of  the  dramatist's  genius 
from  his  work,  but  little  of  his  own  emotions  and 
experiences.  Nor  is  the  wisdom  so  much  his  wis- 
dom, as  it  is  something  residual  from  the  history 
and  evolution  of  his  people.  The  high  gods  of 
^Eschyius  and  -^Eschylus  and  Sophocles  for  the  most 
Sophocles.  part  sit  above  the  thunder  :  but  the  hu- 
man element  pervades  these  dramas ;  the  legendary 
demigods,  heroes,  gentes,  that  serve  as  the  person- 


THE  ATHENIAN  STAGE  99 

ages,  —  Hermes,  Herakles,  the  houses  of  Theseus, 
Atreus,  Jason,  —  all  are  types  of  humankind,  re- 
peating the  Hebraic  argument  of  transmitted  ten- 
dency, virtue,  and  crime,  and  the  results  of  crime 
especially,  from  generation  to  generation.  The  pub- 
lic delight  in  the  Athenian  stage  was  due  to  its 
strenuous  dramatic  action  at  an  epoch  when  the 
nation  was  in  extreme  activity.  Its  religious  cast 
was  the  quintessence  of  morals  derived  from  history, 
from  the  ethics  of  the  gnomic  and  didactic  bards, 
from  the  psychological  conditions  following  great 
wars  and  crises  such  as  those  which  terminated  at 
Salamis  and  Plataea.  ^Eschylus  and  Sophocles  were 
inspired  by  their  times.  They  soared  in  contempla- 
tion of  the  life  of  gods  and  men  :  no  meaner  flight 
contented  them.  The  apparent  subjectivity  of  Eu- 
ripides is  due  to  his  relative  modernness.  No  litera- 
ture was  ever  so  swift  to  run  its  course  as  the 
Attic  drama,  from  the  Cyclopean  architecture  of 
the  "  Prometheus  "  to  the  composite  order  of  "  Al- 
cestis  "  and  "  Ion."  Euripides,  freed  somewhat 
from  the  tyranny  of  the  colossal  myths,  Euripides, 
was  almost  Shakespearian  in  his  reduction  of  them 
to  every-day  life  with  its  vicissitudes  and  social  re- 
sults. His  characters  are  often  unheroic,  modern, 
very  real  and  emotional  men  and  women.  Aristo- 
phanes, still  more  various,  and  at  times  Aristophanes. 
equal  to  the  greatest  of  the  dramatists,  as  a  satirist 
necessarily  enables  us  to  judge  of  his  own  taste  and 
temper  ;  but  in  his  travesties  of  the  immediate  life 


100      CREA  TION  AND  SELF-EXPRESSION 

of  Athens  he  is  no  more  self-intrusive  than  Moliere, 
twenty  centuries  later,  in  his  portraits  of  Tartuffe 
and  Harpagon  and  "  Les  Precieuses."  Men  create 
poetry,  yet  sometimes  poetry  creates  a  man  for  us, 
—  witness  our  ideal  of  the  world's  Homer.  The 
hearts  of  the  Grecian  dramatists  were  so  much  in 
their  business  (to  use  the  French  expression)  that 
they  have  told  us  nothing  of  themselves  ;  but  this 
implies  no  insignificance.  So  reverse  to  common- 
place, so  individual  were  they  each  and  all,  that  in 
point  of  fact  we  know  from  various  sources  more  of 
their  respective  characters,  ambitions,  stations,  than 
we  know  of  that  chief  of  dramatists  who  was  buried 
at  Stratford  less  than  three  centuries  ago. 

But  I  well   may  hesitate   to  discourse   upon   the 
Tribute  to        Greek  and  Latin  poets  to  the  pupils  of  an 

an  American 

scholar.  admired  expounder  of  the  classical  litera- 

tures ; J  and  I  use  the  word  "  literatures  "  advisedly, 
since,  with  all  his  philological  learning,  it  is  perhaps 
his  greatest  distinction  to  have  led  our  return  to 
sympathetic  comprehension  of  the  style  and  spirit 
of  the  antique  masters,  —  to  have  applied,  I  may 
say,  his  genius  not  only  to  the  materials  in  which 
they  worked,  but  to  the  grace  and  power  and  pleni- 
tude of  the  structures  wrought  from  those  materials. 
With  less  hesitation,  then,  I  change,  in  quest  of 
strictly  dramatic  triumphs,  from  the  time  of  Pericles 
to  the  period  of  Calderon,  of  Moliere,  of  Shakespeare 
and  his  Elizabethan  satellites.  Lowell  says  that 
1  Professor  Basil  L.  Gildersleeve. 


YOUTH'S  PRENTICE  HAND  IOI 

Addison  and  Steele  together  made  a  man  of  genius. 
Terence  and  Plautus  between  them  perhaps  display 
the  constituents  of  a  master-playwright,  but  not,  I 
think,  of  a  strongly  imaginative  poet. 

I  have  alluded  to  the  process  by  which  the  epic 
and  dramatic  chieftains  appear  to  reach  The  cry  of 

adolescence. 

their   creative   independence.     As   a  pre-  CD.  "Poets 

of  America  "  : 

liminary,  or  at  certain  intervals  of  life,  P-  l*6- 
they  seem  to  rid  themselves  of  self-consciousness 
by  its  expression  in  lyrics,  sonnets,  and  canzonets. 
Of  this  the  minor  works  of  Dante,  Tasso,  Boccac- 
cio, Michelangelo,  Cervantes,  Calderon,  Camoens, 
Shakespeare  are  eminent  examples.  But  nothing  so 
indicates  the  unparalleled  success  of  the  last-named 
poet  in  this  regard,  as  the  fact  that,  unambiguous  as 
are  his  style  and  method,  and  also  his  moral,  civic, 
and  social  creeds,  we  gather  so  little  of  the  man's 
inner  and  outer  life  from  his  plays  alone  :  except  as 
we  seem  to  find  all  lives,  all  mankind,  within  him- 
self, —  all  experiences, 

"  All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame  ; " 

and  Coleridge,  when  he  called  him  the  myriad- 
minded,  should  have  added,  "because  the  myriad- 
lived." 

The  grand  drama,  then,  like  the  epic,  gives  us 
that  "feigned  history"  which  is  truer  than  history 
as  written,  because  it  does  not  attempt  to  set  things 
right.  Its  strength  must  be  in  ratio  to  its  imper- 


102      CREATION  AND  SELF-EXPRESSION 

sonality.  It  follows  the  method  of  life  itself,  which 
The  drama  an  to  ^Q  unthinking  so  often  seems  blind 
tranll;nriptvof  chance,  so  often  unjust ;  and  of  which 
philosophers,  reviewing  the  past,  are 
scarcely  able  to  form  an  ethical  theory,  and  quite 
helpless  to  predicate  a  future.  Scientifically,  they 
doubt  not,  —  they  must  not  doubt,  —  that 

"  through  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs, 
And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widened  with  the  process  of  the  suns." 

Right  prevails  in  the  end ;  crime  brings  punishment, 
though  often  to  the  innocent.  We  have  seen  that, 
if  poets,  they  deal  with  phenomena,  with  the  shows 
of  things,  and,  as  they  see  and  faithfully  portray 
these,  the  chances  of  life  seem  much  at  haphazard. 
Hamlet,  for  all  his  intellect  and  resolve,  is  the  sport 
of  circumstance.  Rain  still  falls  upon  the  just  and 
the  unjust.  The  natural  law  appears  the  wind  of 
its  ethics  the  destiny.  Man,  in  his  conflicts  with  the 
kwof  Nature.  eiementS)  with  tyranny,  with  superstition, 
with  society,  most  of  all  with  his  own  passions,  is 
still  frequently  overthrown.  It  seems  as  if  the  good 
were  not  necessarily  rewarded  except  by  their  own 
virtue,  or,  if  self-respecting,  except  by  their  own 
pride,  holding  to  the  last ;  the  evil  are  not  cast 
down,  unless  by  their  own  self-contempt,  and  the 
very  evil  flourish  without  conscience  or  remorse. 
The  pull  of  the  universe  is  upon  us,  physically  as 
well  as  morally.  When  all  goes  well,  and  a  fair  end- 
ing is  promised,  then 

"  Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears, 
And  slits  the  thin-spun  life." 


THE  GRAND  DRAMA  103 

Thus  Nature,  in  her  drama,  has  no  temporary  pity, 
no  regret.  She  sets  before  us  the  plots  of  life,  and 
its  characters,  just  as  they  are.  The  plots  may  or 
may  not  be  laid  bare ;  the  characters  often  reveal 
themselves  in  speech  and  action.  As  the  stream 
rises  no  higher  than  its  fount,  the  ideal  dramatist 
is  not  more  learned  than  his  teacher.  He  may 
know  no  more  than  you  of  his  personages'  secrets. 
Thackeray  confessed,  you  remember,  that  Miss 
Sharp  was  too  deep  for  him. 

Tragedy,  according  to  Aristotle  and  in  Dryden's 
English,  is  "an  imitation  of  one  entire,  why  tragedy 

elevates  the 

great,  and  probable  action,  not  told  but  soul, 
represented,  which,  by  moving  in  us  fear  and  pity, 
is  conducive  to  the  purging  of  those  two  passions  in 
our  minds."  And  so  its  reading  of  the  book  of  life, 
even  with  our  poor  vision,  is  more  disciplinary,  more 
instructive  in  ethics  and  the  conduct  of  life,  than 
any  theoretic  preachment.  The  latter  will  be  col- 
ored, more  or  less,  by  the  temper  of  the  preacher. 
Besides,  through  the  exaltation  to  which  we  are 
lifted  by  the  poet's  large  utterance,  our  vision  is 
quickened :  we  see,  however  unconsciously,  that 
earthly  tragedies  are  of  passing  import,  —  phenome- 
nal, formative  experiences  in  the  measureless  pro- 
gress of  the  human  soul ;  that  life  itself  is  a  drama 
in  which  we  are  both  spectators  and  participators ; 
that,  when  the  curtain  falls,  we  may  wake  as  from  a 
dream,  and  enter  upon  a  life  beyond  terrestrial  trage- 
dies and  which  fears  not  even  a  disembodied  phan- 
tom, "  being  a  thing  immortal  as  itself." 


104      CREATION  AND  SELF-EXPRESSION 

The  Greeks  conceived  their  gods  to  be  almost  as 
Man's  victory  powerless  as  a  human  protagonist  to  di- 
vert the  tides  of  circumstance,  and  postu- 
lated a  Destiny  above  them  all.  The  dramatists 
of  Christendom,  while  also  impelled  to  treat  life  as 
it  is,  its  best  and  its  worst,  recognize  no  conflict 
between  Deity  and  Destiny.  Pagan  and  Christian 
alike  present  man,  the  image  of  his  Maker,  as  exer- 
cising his  highest -function  when  he  rises  superior  to 
fate.  Thus  Job  rises,  and  thus  rise  Prometheus, 
(Edipus,  Brutus,  Hamlet,  Wallenstein,  Faust,  Van 
Artevelde,  and  Gregory  VII. ;  and  likewise  their  fine 
heroic  countertypes,  Electra,  Alcestis,  Antigone, 
Cordelia,  Desdemona,  Thekla,  Jeanne  D'Arc,  Dona 
Sol,  and  all  the  feminine  martyrs  of  the  grand 
drama. 

In  arguing  that  the  strength  of  a  play  is  in  ratio 
The  dramatic  to  its  objectivity,  I  assume,  of  course,  that 
genius.  other  thmgS  are  equal.  After  all,  the 

statements  are  the  same,  for  only  the  poet  endowed 
with  insight  and  passion  can  give  a  truthful,  forcible 
transcript  of  life.  Otherwise  many  would  outrank 
Shakespeare,  being  equally  impersonal,  more  artistic 
in  plot-structure,  truer  perhaps  to  history  and  to  the 
possibilities  of  events.  They  often  compose  success- 
ful plays,  striking  as  to  incident  and  use  of  stage 
accessories:  but  more  is  required  —  the  imagination 
that  creates  brave  personalities,  the  cognate  high 
poetic  gifts  —  to  make  a  composition  entirely  great. 
Add  to  such  endowments  the  faculty  of  self-efface- 


SUPREME  POETIC  EMINENCE  105 

ment,  and  Shakespeare  stands  at  the  head  thus  far. 
His  period  fitted  him,  —  one  of  action  and  adventur- 
ous zest  rather  than  of  introspection.  At  that  time, 
moreover,  literary  fame  and  subsistence  were  won 
by  play-writing.  His  mind  caught  fire  by  its  own 
friction,  as  he  wrote  play  after  play  directly  for  the 
stage,  knowing  himself  to  be  in  constant  touch  with 
the  people  for  whom  and  from  whom  he  drew  his 
abundant  types. 

I  have  often  thought  upon  the  relative  stations  of 
the  various  classes  of  poetry,  and  am  dis-  Grand  drama 

.  the  noblest  and 

posed   to   deem   eminence   in   the   grand  most  inclusive 

of  poetic 

drama  the  supreme  eminence ;  and  this  structures, 
because,  at  its  highest,  the  drama  includes  all  other 
forms  and  classes,  whether  considered  technically  or 
essentially.  Its  plot  requires  as  much  inventive  and 
constructive  faculty  as  any  epic  or  other  narrative. 
Action  is  its  glory,  and  characterization  must  be  as 
various  and  vivid  as  life  itself.  The  dialogue  is  writ- 
ten in  the  most  noble,  yet  flexible  measure  of  a  lan- 
guage ;  if  English,  in  the  blank  verse  that  combines 
the  freedom  of  prose  with  the  stateliness  of  accen- 
tual rhythm.  The  gravest  speech,  the  lightest  and 
sweetest,  find  their  best  vehicle  in  our  unrhymed 
pentameter ;  again,  a  poetic  drama  contains  songs 
and  other  interludes  which  exercise  the  lyrical  gift 
so  captivating  in  the  works,  for  example,  of  our 
English  playwrights  :  the  Elizabethans  having  been 
lions  in  their  heroics,  eagles  in  their  wisdom,  and 


106       CREATION  AND  SELF-EXPRESSION 

skylarks  in  their  rare  madrigals  and  part-songs. 
Tragedy  and  comedy  alike  are  unlimited  with  respect 
to  contrasts  of  incident  and  utterance,  light  and 
shadow  of  experience ;  they  embrace  whatsoever  is 
poetic  in  mirth,  woe,  learning,  law,  religion  —  above 
all,  in  passion  and  action.  So  that  the  drama  is  like 
a  stately  architectural  structure  ;  a  cathedral  that 
includes  every  part  essential  to  minor  buildings,  and 
calls  upon  the  entire  artistic  brotherhood  for  its 
shape  and  beauty  :  upon  the  carver  and  the  sculptor 
for  its  reliefs  and  imagery ;  upon  the  painter  and  the 
decorative  artist  for  its  wall-color  and  stained  glass  ; 
upon  the  moulder  to  fashion  its  altar-rail,  and  the 
founder  to  cast  the  bells  that  give  out  its  knell  or 
paean  to  the  land  about.  The  drama  is  thus  more 
inclusive  than  the  epic.  There  is  little  in  Homer 
that  is  not  true  to  nature,  but  there  is  no  phase  of 
nature  that  is  not  in  Shakespeare. 

Analyze  the  components  of  a  Shakespearian  play, 
and  you  will  see  that  I  make  no  overstatement. 

"  The  Tempest,"  a  romantic  play,  is  as  notable  as 
"The Tem-  any  for  poetic  quality  and  varied  concep- 

pest "  as  an  ,  ... 

illustration.  tion.  It  takes  elemental  nature  tor  its 
scenes  and  background,  the  unbarred  sky,  the  sea  in 
storm  and  calm,  the  enchanted  flowery  isle,  so 

"  full  of  noises, 
Sounds  and  sweet  airs  that  give  delight  and  hurt  not." 

The  personages  comprise  many  types,  —  king,  noble, 
sage,  low-born  sailor,  boisterous  vagabond,  youth  and 
maiden  in  the  heyday  of  their  innocent  love.  To 


»     SHAKESPEARE  IO/ 

them  are  superadded  beings  of  the  earth  and  air, 
Caliban  and  Ariel,  creations  of  the  purest  imagina- 
tion. All  these  reveal  their  natures  by  speech  and 
action,  with  a  realism  impossible  to  the  tamer  method 
of  a  narrative  poem.  Consider  the  poetic  thought 
and  diction  :  what  can  excel  Prospero's  vision  of  the 
world's  dissolution  that  shall  leave  "not  a  rack  be- 
hind," or  his  stately  abjuration  of  the  magic  art  ? 
Listen,  here  and  there,  to  the  songs  of  his  tricksy 
spirit,  his  brave  chick,  Ariel :  "  Come  unto  these 
yellow  sands,"  "  Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies," 
"Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I."  Then  we 
have  a  play  within  a  play,  lightening  and  decorating 
it,  the  masque  of  Iris,  Ceres,  and  Juno.  I  recapitu- 
late these  details  to  give  a  perfectly  familiar  illustra- 
tion of  the  scope  of  the  drama.  True,  this  was 
Shakespeare,  but  the  ideal  should  be  studied  in  a 
masterpiece ;  and  such  a  play  as  "  The  Tempest " 
shows  the  possibilities  of  invention  and  imagination 
in  the  most  synthetic  poetic  form  over  which  genius 
has  extended  its  domain. 

For  one,  I  think  that  Sophocles  and  Shakespeare 
have  taught  us,  by  example,  that  greatness  impersonality 
in  the  noblest  of  poetic  structures  must  masted, 
be  impersonal.  The  magician  must  not  directly 
appear ;  though,  from  reflecting  upon  a  Prospero, 
a  Benedick,  or  a  Hamlet,  we  may  guess  at  certain  of 
his  maker's  traits  ;  and  in  sooth  he  must  know  his 
own  heart  to  read  the  heart  of  the  world,  even  while 
he  stands  so  far  aloof  that  it  may  be  said  of  him,  as 
of  one  translated, 


108      CREA  TION  AND  SELF-EXPRESSION 

"  Far  off  is  he  — 

No  more  subjected  to  the  change  and  chance 
Of  the  unsteady  planets." 

Yet  there  is  a  subjective  drama  which,  as  we  have 

Modern  and      learned  in  our  day,  is  not  without  great- 
subjective 
drama.  ness  derived  from  the  unique   genius  of 

its  constructor.  The  poet  of  England  and  Italy, 
whose  ashes  Venice  has  so  recently  surrendered  to 
their  shrine  in  Westminster,  doubtless  possessed  a 
sturdier  dramatic  spirit  than  any  Briton  since  the 
days  of  John  Webster  and  John  Ford.  Browning 
Browning.  was  a  masterful  poet  in  his  temper  and 
insight,  his  flashes  of  power  and  passion,  his  meta- 
phors, and  distinguished  for  his  recognition  of  na- 
tional and  historic  types,  his  acceptance  of  life,  his 
profound  conviction  that  the  system  of  things  is  all 
right,  that  we  can  trust  it  to  the  end.  But  his  inces- 
sant recurrence  to  this  conviction  was  a  personal 
factor  significant  of  many  others.  There  are  numer- 
ous and  distinct  characters  in  his  repertory,  but  it 
requires  study  to  apprehend  them,  for  they  have  but 
one  habit  of  speech,  whatsoever  their  age  or  country. 
c  -victo  They  all  indulge,  moreover,  in  that  trick 
ppn2^297":  °f  self-analysis  which  Shakespeare  con- 
431-433-  fines  to  the  soliloquies  of  special  person- 
ages at  critical  moments.  Even  Browning's  little 
maids  study  their  own  cases  in  the  spirit  of  Sordello 
or  Paracelsus.  Finally,  his  whole  work  is  character- 
ized by  a  strangely  individual  style  and  atmosphere. 
True,  it  is  difficult  to  mistake  an  excerpt  from  Shake- 


THE  SUBJECTIVE  DRAMA— BROWNING 

speare  at  his  prime,  But  why  is  this  ?  Because 
Shakespeare's  style  has  unapproachable  beauty, 
strength,  flexibility,  within  the  natural  method  of 
English  verse ;  his  inimitableness  is  due  not  to 
eccentricity,  but  to  a  grandeur  of  quality.  His  tone, 
characterization,  and  dialogue  are  as  varied  as  nature. 
Browning's  method  hardly  suggests  either  our  native 
order  of  thought  or  nature's  universality.  It  seems 
the  result  of  a  decision  to  compose  in  a  peculiar  way, 
but  more  likely  is  the  honest  reflex  of  his  analytic 
mental  processes.  That  at  times  it  is  great,  and 
above  that  of  his  contemporaries,  must  be  acknow- 
ledged, for  his  intellect  was  of  a  high  order. 

Swinburne  calls  his  plays  "  monodramas,  or  soli- 
loquies of  the   spirit."     The  subjectivity  Dramatic 

,.,,,,,.  .  .        lyrics  and 

which  blends  their  various  personages  in  monologues. 
a  common  atmosphere  does  not  detract  from  the 
effect  of  his  powerful  dramatic  lyrics  and  mono- 
logues, each  the  study  of  a  single  character.  The 
most  striking  of  these  pieces, —  their  abundance  is 
prodigal,  and  not  one  is  without  excuse  for  being, 
—  from  "My  Last  Duchess,"  "Bishop  Blougram," 
"Childe  Roland,"  "Saul,"  to  "A  Forgiveness,"  in- 
cluding nearly  all  the  "  Dramatic  Lyrics,"  and 
"  Men  and  Women,"  place  him  among  the  century's 
foremost  masters.  In  such  studies,  and  in  certain 
of  his  dramas,  he  has  created  a  new  type  of  Eng- 
lish poetry  that  is  second  only  to  the  Elizabethan. 
His  eminence  is  taken  for  granted  when  we  begin  to 
measure  him,  if  only  in  contrast,  by  Shakespeare 
himself:  a  tribute  rendered  to  scarcely  any  other 


1 10       CREATION  AND  SELF-EXPRESSION 

poet  save  John  Keats,  and,  in  that  instance,  not  on 
the  score  of  mature  dramatic  quality,  but  for  a  dic- 
tion so  prophetic  of  what  in  time  might  be  that  the 
world  thinks  of  his  youthful  shade  among  the  blest 
as  the  one  permitted  to  sit  at  Shakespeare's  feet. 

I  spoke  of  our  sovereign  dramatist  as  being  in 
The  modem  spirit  with  his  own  people,  and  writing  di- 
stage.  rectly  for  their  stage.  Browning's  earlier 

plays  were  written  for  enactment,  and  one  or  two 
were  produced  with  some  success.  These,  however, 
to  my  mind,  are  not  his  best  work,  and  his  most 
effective  dramas  are  not,  as  we  say,  adapted  to  stage 
performance.  Yet  I  rebuke  myself,  when  repeating 
this  cant  of  the  coulisses,  as  I  reflect  upon  the  qual- 
ity that  does  find  vogue  with  managers  and  audiences 
at  the  present  time.  Who  can  predict  what  will  be 
thought  best  "  adapted  to  stage  performance  "  when 
Jove  lets  down  "in  his  golden  chain  the  Age  of 
better  metal"  for  which  Ben  Jonson  prayed,  —  the 
age,  at  least,  of  different  metal  ?  Even  now  we  fol- 
low a  grand  drama,  though  it  be  one  of  the  outlived 
classical  and  recitative  cast,  with  absorbed  delight, 
when  it  is  revived  by  a  Salvini.  But  I  believe  that 
Browning  himself  would  have  written  more  and 
greater  dramas,  and  of  an  impersonal  order,  if  there 
had  been  a  theatrical  demand  for  his  work  after  the 
performances  of  "  Straff ord  "  and  "  A  Blot  in  the 
'Scutcheon."  Mischance,  and  the  spirit  of  the  time, 
may  have  lost  to  us  a  modern  Shakespeare.  As  it 
is,  we  have  gained  a  new  avatar  of  dramatic  poetry 
in  the  works  of  our  Victorian  Browning. 


IV. 

MELANCHOLIA. 

WE  have  considered  ancient  poetry,  the  Hebraic 
and  the  classic,  from  which  we  so  largely  subjective 
derive,  finding  even  in  that  of  the  Augus-  •££•$!?  °f 
tan  prime  a  marked  departure  from  the 
originative  temper  of  the  earlier  literatures.     Cen- 
turies afterward,  in  Persia,  the  "  Shah  Nameh,"  or 
Book   of   Kings,   furnished   a   striking   instance   of 
heroic  composition  :  the  work  of  a  royal  genius,  — 
Firdusi,  whose  name,  signifying  Paradise,  FMusi. 
was  given  him  by  the  great  Mahmoud  because  he 
had  made  that  Caliph's  court  as  resplendent  as  Eden 
through  his  epic  of  "  Rustem  and  Sohrab,"  his  song 
of  "  the  rise,  combats,  death " 1  of  the  Parsee  reli- 
gion and  nationality.     To  produce  an  epic  deliber- 
ately that  would  simulate  the  primitive  mould  and 
manner,  in    spite   of  a  subjective,    almost   modern, 
spirit,  seems  to  have  been  the  privilege  of  an  Ori- 
ental, and,  from   our  point  of  view,    half-barbaric, 
race. 

The  strength  of  the  Homeric  poems  and  of  the 
sagas  of  the  North  betrays  the  gladness  out  of  which 
they  sprang,  the  joy  that  a  man-child  is  born  into 

1  Gosse's  Introduction  to  Miss  Zimmern's  Stories  Retold  from  Fir- 
dusi. 


1 1 2  MELANCHOLIA 


the  world.  They  were  men-children  indeed.  Com- 
Tasso,  Ariosto,  pared  with  our  own  recitals,  —  with  even 
Tasso's  "  Jerusalem,"  Ariosto's  "  Orlan- 
do," or  the  "Lusiad"  of  Camoens, —  their  voice  is 
that  of  the  ocean  heard  before  the  sighing  of  reeds 
along  a  river's  brim.  Nevertheless,  we  must  note 
that  of  the  few  great  world-poems  the  subjective  ele- 
ment claims  its  almost  equal  share. 

As  we  leave  the  classic  garden,  there  stands  one 
The"Divina  rnighty  figure  with  the  archangelic  flam- 
commedia."  ing  sword  After  Dante  it  may  be  said 

that  "the  world  is  all  before"  us  "where  to  choose." 
Behind  him,  strive  as  we  may  with  renaissance  and 
imitation,  we  need  not  and  cannot  return.  Heine 
says  that  "every  epoch  is  a  sphinx  which  plunges 
into  the  abyss  as  soon  as  its  problem  is  solved." 
After  a  thousand  years  of  the  fermentation  caused 
by  the  pouring  in  of  Christianity  upon  the  lees  of 
paganism,  a  cycle  ended  ;  the  shade  of  Dante  arose, 
and  brooded  above  the  deep.  From  his  time  there 
was  light  again.  A  climacteric  epoch  had  expired 
in  giving  him  birth.  His  own  age  became  Dante, 
as  if  by  one  of  the  metamorphoses  in  the  "Inferno." 
And  the  "  Divine  Comedy  "  is  equally  one  with  its 
creator.  The  age,  the  poem,  the  poet,  alike  are 
Dante  ;  his  epic  is  a  trinity  in  spirit  as  in  form.  Its 
passion  is  the  incremental  heat  that  serves  to  weld 
antique  and  modern  conceptions,  the  old  dispensa- 
tion and  the  new. 


THE  " DIVINE   COMEDY"  113 

It  is  said  that  great  poets  are  always  before  or 
behind  their  ages  ;  Dante  was  no  excep-  Dante, 
tion,  yet  he  preeminently  lived  within  his  time. 
Above  all  else,  his  epic  declares  the  intense  person- 
ality that  must  have  voice  ;  not  merely  expression 
of  the  emotion  that  inspired  his  minor  numbers  — 
themselves  enough  for  fame  —  addressed  to  Beatrice, 
but  also  of  his  insight  concerning  the  master  forces 
of  human  life  and  faith  and  the  historic  turmoil  of 
his  era.  It  was  composed  when  he  had  matured 
through  knowledge  and  experience  to  that  ethical 
comprehension  which  is  the  sustaining  energy  of 
Job,  of  the  Greek  dramatists,  of  Shakespeare,  Mil- 
ton, and  Goethe.  Then  he  cast  his  spirit,  as  one 
takes  a  mould  of  the  body,  in  the  matrix  of  the 
"  Divina  Commedia."  In  this  self-perpetuation  he 
interpreted  his  own  time  as  no  modern  genius  can 
hope  to  do,  —  and  this  is  the  achievement  of  person- 
ality at  its  highest.  That  he  might  succeed,  he  was 
disciplined  by  controversy,  war,  grief,  exile,  until 
the  scales  fell  from  .his  eyes,  and  he  saw,  within 
the  glory  of  his  Church's  exaltation,  the  vice,  tyr- 
anny, superstition,  of  that  Church  at  that  time,  of 
his  people,  of  his  native  state.  His  heart  was 
strengthened  for  judgment,  his  manhood  for  hate, 
and  his  vision  was  set  heavenward  for  an  ideal.  His 
epic,  then,  while  dramatically  creative,  is  The  man,  the 

..          .  .  111        aSe.  and  the 

at  the  apex  of  subjective  poetry,  doubly  poem. 

so  from   its   expression  of   both  the   man   and  the 

time  ;  hence  our  chief  example  of  the  mixed  type, — 


1 14  MELANCHOLIA 


that  which  is  compounded  of  egoism  and  inventive 
imagination.  Its  throes  are  those  of  a  transition 
from  absolute  art  to  the  sympathetic  method  of  the 
new  day. 

Dante  could  effect  this  only  by  a  symbolism  com- 
bining the  supreme  emblems  of  pagan  and  Christian 
schools. 

In  his  allegory  of  Hell,  Purgatory,  and,  above  all, 
of  Paradise,  he  is  the  most  profound  and  aspiring  of 
ethical  teachers.  The  feebler  handling  of  symbol- 
ism, for  art's  sake  and  beauty's,  and  with  an  affecta- 
tion of  the  virtues,  is  seen  in  the  "  Faerie  Queene  " 
of  our  courtly  Spenser,  the  poet's  poet,  yet  one  who 
never  reached  the  mountain-top  of  absolute  ethics. 
The  tinker  Bunyan's  similitudes — and  he  was  essen- 
tially a  poet,  writing  in  English  beyond  a  mere 
scholar's  mastery  —  are  more  intrinsically  dramatic. 
But  they  illustrate  a  rigid  creed,  and  are  below  the 
imagery  that  sets  forth  equally  human  crime  and 
"On  a  Bust  of  nobleness,  the  vision  that  illumines  life, 
x.wfparsons.  churchcraft,  statecraft,  nationality,  art, 
and  religion.  Within  the  eternal  blazon  of  that  sat- 
urnine bard  whose 

"  rugged  face 
Betrays  no  spirit  of  repose, 

The  sullen  warrior  sole  we  trace, 
The  marble  man  of  many  woes. 
Such  was  his  mien  when  first  arose 

The  thought  of  that  strange  tale  divine, 
When  hell  he  peopled  with  his  foes, 

Dread  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  line. 


ENGLAND'S  HELICON  11$ 

"  War  to  the  last  he  waged  with  all 
The  tyrant  canker-worms  of  Earth ; 

Baron  and  duke,  in  hold  and  hall, 
Cursed  the  dark  hour  that  gave  him  birth ; 
He  used  Rome's  harlot  for  his  mirth ; 

Plucked  bare  hypocrisy  and  crime  ; 
But  valiant  souls  of  knightly  worth 

Transmitted  to  the  rolls  of  Time." 

The  antique  charm,  meanwhile,  had  fled  to  Eng- 
land, ever  attaching  itself  to  the  youth  of  From  Chaucer 
poesy  in  each  new  land.  The  English  toMilton- 
springtime!  —  to  be  young  in  it  is  very  heaven,  since 
it  is  the  fairest  of  all  such  seasons  in  all  climes.  It 
gladdens  the  meadows  and  purling  streams  of  Dan 
Chaucer's  Tales  and  Romaunts,  and  in  their  min- 
strelsy he  forgot  himself,  like  a  child  that  roams 
afield  in  May.  With  Spenser,  and  the  Tudor  son- 
neteers, the  self-expressive  poetry  of  England  fairly 
begins.  They,  and  their  common  antique  and  Italian 
models,  were  the  teachers  of  Milton  in  his  youth. 
The  scholar  gave  us  what  is  still  in  the  front  rank 
of  our  English  masterpieces  and,  with  one  exception, 
the  latest  of  those  rhythmical  creations  which  belong 
to  the  world  at  large. 

Milton  in  his  epic  appears  less  determinedly  as 
the  rhapsodist  in  person  than  Dante   in  «paradise 
the  "Divine  Comedy."     He  sees  his  vi-  Lost'" 
sion  by  invocation  of  the  Muse,  while  the  Floren- 
tine is  "  personally  conducted,"  one  may  say,  on  his 
tour  through  the  three  phantasmal  abodes.     Doubt- 
less "  Paradise  Lost "  is  the  more  objective  work  ; 


Il6  MELANCHOLIA 


but  with  the  unparalleled  Miltonic  utterance,  its  au- 
thor's polemic  creeds  of  liberty  and  religion  are  con- 
veyed throughout.  He  also  stands  foremost  among 
the  bards  of  qualified  vision,  by  virtue  of  "  Samson 
Agonistes,"  a  classical  drama  in  which  he  himself 
indubitably  towers  as  the  blind  and  fettered  pro- 
tagonist. 

Milton's  early  verse  is  the  flower  of  his  passion 
The  minor  po-  ^or  beauty  and  learning,  and  exquisite  be- 
ems  of  Milton.  yond  that  Qf  any  young  English  poet  then 

or  now, —  his  pupil  Keats  excepted.  Had  he  died 
after  "  II  Penseroso,"  "  L'  Allegro,"  and  "  Lycidas," 
he  would  have  been  mourned  like  Keats ;  for  their 
perfection  is  to-day  the  model  (though  usually  at 
second  hand)  of  artists  in  English  verse.  In  "  Lyci- 
das" he  freed  our  rhythm  from  its  first  enslavement ; 
its  second  lasted  from  Pope's  time  until  the  Geor- 
gian revival.  One  mark  of  the  subjectivity  of  his 
early  poems  often  has  been  noted, —  they  are  none 
too  realistic  in  their  transcripts  of  nature.  Milton, 
as  in  his  greater  work,  looked  inward,  and  drew  his 
landscape  from  the  Arcadian  vistas  thus  beheld. 
Besides,  he  was  such  a  master  of  the  Greek,  Latin, 
and  Italian  literatures  as  to  be  native  to  their  idioms 
His  self-  and  spirit.  His  more  resolute  self-asser- 
fn  tf^great  ti°n  came  in  argument  and  song  after  ex- 

Puritan  epic.  •  /•    •  •  .  •  i  i 

perience  of  imposing  national  events  and 
sore  private  calamities,  when  the  man  was  ripe  in 
thought,  faith,  suffering,  and  all  that  makes  for 
character  and  exaltation.  The  universe,  as  he  con- 


"PARADISE  LOST"  1 1/ 

ceived  it,  was  his  theme.  His  hero,  the  majestic 
Satan  of  his  own  creation,  outvies  the  ^schylean 
demigod.  The  Puritan  bard,  like  Dante,  idealized 
an  era  and  a  religion.  In  the  matter  and  style  of 
the  sublimest  epic  of  Christendom  its  maker's  indi- 
viduality everywhere  is  felt.  The  blind  seer  seems 
dictating  it  throughout.  We  see  his  head  bowed 
upon  his  breast ;  we  hear  the  prophetic  voice  re- 
hearsing its  organ-tones ;  and  thus  we  should  see 
and  hear,  even  if  we  could  forget  that  outburst  at 
the  opening  of  the  Third  Book,  wherein,  after  the 
radiant  conception  of  the  "  Eternal  coeternal  beam," 
the  sonorous  declaration  of  his  purposed  higher 
flight,  and  the  pathetic  references  to  his  blindness, 
his  final  invocation  enables  all  after-time  to  recog- 
nize the  inward  light  from  which  his  imagination 
drew  its  splendor  :  — 

"  So  much  the  rather  thou,  celestial  Light, 
Shine  inward,  and  the  mind  through  all  her  powers 
Irradiate,  there  plant  eyes,  all  mist  from  thence 
Purge  and  disperse,  that  I  may  see  and  tell 
Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight." 

Milton's  eventide  sonnets,  incomparable  for  virility 
and  eloquence,  are  also  nobly  pathetic ;  His  sonnets, 
there  are  no  personal  strains  more  full  of  heroic 
endurance.  Not  again  was  there  a  minstrel  so  re- 
solved on  personal  expression,  yet  so  creative,  so 
full  of  conviction  that  often  begat  didacticism,  yet 
so  sensitive  to  impressions  of  beauty,  until  we  come 
to  Shelley  —  and  his  flight,  alas  !  was  ended,  while, 


Il8  MELANCHOLIA 


as  Arnold  says,  he  was  still  "  beating  in  the  void  his 
luminous  wings  in  vain." 

But  the  nineteenth  century,  complex  through  its 
Our  modem  interfusion  of  peoples  and  literatures,  and 
istic  poetry  of  with  all  history  behind  it,  has  developed 

self-expres- 
sion- the  typical  poetry  of  self-expression,  and 

withal  a  new  interpretation  of  life  and  landscape 
through  the  impressionism  of  its  artists  and  poets. 
All  this  began  with  the  so-called  romantic  move- 
ment. 

Kingsley,  in  his  "  Hypatia,"  brings  the  pagan 
The  Romantic  Goths  of  the  North,  fair-haired  worshippers 
Movement.  of  Qdin,  giants  in  their  barbaric  strength, 
to  Christian  Alexandria,  where  they  loom  above  the 
Greek,  the  Roman,  and  the  Jew.  In  time  they  over- 
ran and  to  some  extent  blended  with  the  outer 
world.  It  is  strange  how  little  they  affected  its  art 
and  letters.  Not  until  after  the  solvent  force  of 
Christianity  had  done  its  work  could  the  Northern 
heart  and  imagination  suffuse  the  stream  of  classi- 
cism with  the  warm  yet  beclouded  quality  of  their 
own  tide.  Passion  and  understanding,  as  Menzel 
has  declared,  represent  the  antique  ;  the  romantic  — 
the  word  being  Latin,  the  quality  German  —  is  all 
depth  and  tenderness.  To  comprehend  the  modern 
movement,  —  vague,  emotional,  transcendental,  - 
which  really  began  in  Germany,  read  Heine  on  "The 
Romantic  School,"  of  which  he  himself,  younger 
than  Arnim  and  Goethe,  was  a  luxuriant  offshoot. 


THE  ROMANTIC  LEADERS  Iig 

It  came  into  England  with  Coleridge,  with  Leigh 
Hunt  and  Keats,  and  found  its  extreme  in  Byron. 
Later  still,  it  fought  a  victorious  campaign  in  France, 
under  the  young  Hugo  and  his  comrades.  In  fine, 
with  color,  warmth,  feeling,  picturesqueness,  the  iri- 
descent wave  swept  over  Europe,  and  to  the  West- 
ern world,  —  affecting  our  own  poetry  and  fiction 
since  the  true  rise  of  American  ideality.  Upon  its 
German  starting-ground  the  imperial  Goe-  Goethe, 
the  was  enthroned,  but  he  has  been  almost  the  only 
universalist  and  world-poet  of  its  begetting.  For  he 
not  only  produced  with  ease  the  lyrics  that  made  all 
younger  minstrels  his  votaries,  but  was  fertile  in 
massive  and  purposely  objective  work.  The  drama 
was  his  life-study,  and  he  sought  to  be,  like  Shake- 
speare, dramatist  and  manager  in  one.  "  Faust," 
the  master-work  of  our  century,  is  an  "Faust." 
epochal  creation.  Yet  even  "  Faust  "  is  the  reflec- 
tion of  Goethe's  experience  as  the  self -elected  arche- 
type of  Man,  and  is  subjective  in  its  ethical  intent 
and  individuality.  Still,  the  master's  tranquil,  al- 
most Jovian,  nature  enabled  him  often  to  separate 
his  personality  from  his  inventions.  This  Hugo. 
.  more  rarely  is  the  case  with  the  only  Frenchman 
comparable  to  him  in  scope  and  dramatic  fertility, — 
superior  to  him  in  energy  of  lyrical  splendor.  Melo- 
dramatic power  and  imagination  are  the  twin  genii 
of  Hugo,  and  his  human  passion  is  intense ;  but  his 
own  strenuous,  untamed  temperament  compels  us 
everywhere,  even  in  his  romantic  and  historic  plays. 


120  MELANCHOLIA 


He  was  the  true  creator  of  modern  French  litera- 
ture, for  which  he  furnished  a  new  vocabulary,  and 
he  brought  France  out  of  her  frigid  classicism  into 
line  with  the  Northern  world.  Then  came  Lamar- 
other  French  tme>  w^h  his  sentiment,  and  Musset  and 
romantics  Gautier,  —  children  of  Paris  and  Helen, 
consecrate  from  birth  to  the  abandon  of  emotion 
and  beauty,  and  equally  with  Lamartine  to  the  po- 
etry of  self-expression. 

Long  before,  in  Scotland,  a  more  spontaneous  min- 
Burns.  strel  also  had  sung  out  of  the  fulness  of 

the  music  born  within  him,  but  with  a  tone  that  sepa- 
rated him  from  the  choir  of  purely  subjective  poets. 
Burns  was  altruistic,  because  his  songs  were  those 
of  his  people.  In  his  notes  amid  the  heather,. Sco- 
tia's lowly,  independent  children  found  a  voice.  It 
was  his  own,  and  it  was  theirs ;  he  looked  out  and 
not  in,  or,  if  in,  upon  himself  as  the  symbol  of  his 
kind.  Of  all  our  poets,  lyric  and  idyllic,  he  is  most 
truly  nature's  darling ;  his  pictures  were  life,  his 
voice  was  freedom,  his  heart  was  strength  and  ten- 
derness. Yet  Burns, 

"  who  walked  in  glory  and  in  joy, 
Following  his  plough,  along  the  mountain-side," 

is  not  a  child  of  the  introspective  Muse.  Relatively 
late  as  was  his  song,  he  stands  glad  and  brave  among 
the  simple,  primitive,  and  therefore  universal  min- 
strels. 

No ;   it  is  in  Byron,  with  his  loftier  genius  and 
more  self-centred  emotions,  that  we  find  our  main 


WER  THERISM  1 2 1 


example  of  voice  and  vision  conditioned  by  the  tem- 
perament of   their   possessor.     Objective  Byronthe 
poetry,  being  native  to  the  youth  of  a  race  ^-"{ive 
before  self-torturing  sophistry  has  wrought  P061' 
bewilderment,  seemingly  should  appeal  to  the  youth 
of   an   individual.     And   thus   it   does,    but   to   the 
youngest   youth,  —  that   of   a  wonder-loving   child, 
whom  the  "  Iliad  "  and  "  Odyssey,"  or  Scott's  epical 
romances,  delight,  and  who  can  make  little  of  met- 
rical sentimentalism.    ,The  world-weary  veteran  also 
finds  it  a  refreshment ;  his  arrogance  has  been  les- 
sened, and  he  has  been  taught  that  his  griefs  and 
dreams  are  but  the  common  lot. 

Yet  it  is  plain  that  subjective  poetry,  if  sensuous 
and  passionate,  strongly  affects  suscepti-  The{erment 
ble  natures  at  a  certain  stage  of  imma-  °fnewwine- 
turity.  Now  that  town  life  is  everywhere,  we  see 
the  Wei  therism  of  former  days  replaced  by  a  kind 
of  jejune  sestheticism,  with  its  own  peculiar  affecta- 
tion of  wit  and  indifference.  But  to  the  secluded 
youth,  not  yet  concerned  with  action  and  civic  life, 
subjective  poetry  still  makes  a  mysterious  appeal. 
Sixty  years  ago  the  young  poet  of  the  period,  con- 
sciously or  otherwise,  became  a  Childe  Harold, 
among  men,  "  but  not  of  them  ; "  one  who  had  "  not 
loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  "  him.  He  found  a 
mild  dissipation  in  contemplating  his  fancied  miser- 
ies, and  was  a  tragic  personage  in  his  own  eyes,  and 
usually  a  coxcomb  in  those  of  the  unfeeling  neigh- 
borhood. This  mock-heroic  pose,  so  often  without 


122  MELANCHOLIA 


a  compensating  gift,  was  and  is  due  to  the  novel 
consciousness  of  individuality  that  comes  to  each 
and  all,  —  to  the  over-consciousness  of  it  which 
many  sentimentalists,  against  a  thousand  slights  and 
failures,  retain  by  arrested  development  to  the  end 
of  their  days.  At  its  best,  we  have  poetic  sensibil- 
ity intensified  by  egotism.  Keats  understood  this 
Keats  and  his  clearly,  even  when  experiencing  it.  In 
seif-anaiysis.  spite  of  the  real  tragedy  of  his  career,  he 
manfully  outgrew  it ;  his  po^fry  swiftly  advanced  to 
the  robust  and  creative  type,  as  he  wasted  under  a 
fatal  illness  and  even  in  his  heart's  despair.  And 
what  better  diagnosis  of  a  young  poet's  greensick- 
ness than  these  words  from  the  touching  preface  to 
"  Endymion"  ? 

"  The  imagination  of  a  boy  is  healthy,  and  the  mature 
imagination  of  a  man  is  healthy  ;  but  there  is  a  space  of 
life  between,  in  which  the  soul  is  in  a  ferment,  the  char- 
acter undecided,  the  way  of  life  uncertain,  the  ambition 
thick-sighted :  thence  proceed  mawkishness,  and  all  the 
thousand  bitters  which  those  men  I  speak  of  must  neces- 
sarily taste  in  going  over  the  following  pages." 

It  was  preordained  that  even  this  limbo  of  life 
should  have  an  immortal  voice,  and  that  voice  was 
Byron.  Until  his  time  the  sturdy  English  folk  had 
escaped  the  need  of  it.  This  came  with  a  peculiar 
agitation  of  the  national  sentiment.  That  Byron 
found  his  fame,  and  the  instant  power  to  create  an 
audience  for  his  captivating  monodrama,  restricted 
him  to  a  single  and  almost  lifelong  mood.  This  was 


BYRON  123 

the  more  prolonged  since  it  was  thoroughly  in  tem- 
per with  an  eager  generation.  The  French  Revolu- 
tion led  to  a  perception  of  the  insufficiency  and 
brutalism  of  contemporary  systems.  Rebellion  was 
in  the  air,  and  a  craving  for  some  escape  Byron  and 
to  political,  spiritual,  and  social  freedom.  w*Perioi 
Byron  pointed  out  the  paths  by  land  and  sea  to  a 
proud  solitude,  to  a  refuge  with  nature  and  art 
which  the  blunted  public  taste  had  long  forgotten, 
and  he  sang  so  eloquently  withal  that  he  drew  more 
than  a  third  part  of  the  rising  stars  of  Europe  after 
him.  Their  leader  is  the  typical  bard  of  self-expres- 
sion, not  only  for  the  superb  natural  strength,  and 
directness,  and  passion  of  a  lyrical  genius  that  forces 
us  to  bear  with  its  barbaric  ignorance  of  both  art 
and  realism,  but  because  he  sustained  it  to  the  end 
of  his  career  in  a  purely  romantic  atmosphere. 
This  pervades  even  the  kaleidoscopic  "  Don  Juan," 
the  main  achievement  of  his  ripest  years,  strength- 
ened as  it  is  by  the  vigor  of  which  humor  is  the  sur- 
plusage and  an  easy-going  tolerance  the  disposition. 
It  must  always  be  considered,  in  so  far  as  his  devel- 
opment was  arrested,  that  Byron  was  a  lord,  born 
and  bred  in  the  British  Philistinism  against  which 
his  nature  protested,  and  that  the  protest  was  con- 
tinued because  the  fortress  did  not  yield  to  assault. 
And  he  had  no  Byron  for  a  predecessor,  as  an  object- 
lesson  in  behalf  of  naturalness  and  common  sense. 

Shelley,  who   came   and  went   like  a  spirit,  and 
whose  poetry  seemed  the  aureole  of  a  strayed  vis- 


1 24  MELA  NCHOLIA 


itor  from  some  translunary  sphere,  is  even  more 
sheiiey.  present  to  us  than  Byron,  with  whom, 
by  the  law  that  brings  the  wandering  moths  of 
nightfall  together,  his  life  touched  closely  during  its 
later  years.  His  self -portrayal  is  as  much  more 
beautiful  and  poetic  than  Byron's  as  it  is  more 
truthful,  unaffected,  — •  drawn  wholly  for  self-relief. 
That  it  had  no  theatrical  motive  is  clear  from  inter- 
nal evidence,  and  from  his  biographer's  avowal  that 
he  had  gained  scarcely  fifty  readers  when  he  died. 
Byron  was  consciously  a  soliloquist  on  the  stage, 
with  the  whole  reading  world  to  applaud  him  from 
the  auditorium.  Again,  while  nothing  can  be  more 
His  self-  poignantly  intense  than  Shelley's  self- 
delineation  in  certain  stanzas  of  the 
"  Adonais,"  and  throughout  "Alastor,"  selfishness 
and  egotism  had  no  foothold  in  his  nature.  He  was 
altruism  incarnate.  His  personal  sufferings  were 
emblematic  of  wronged  and  baffled  humanity.  Thus 
His  creative  it  was  that  when  removed  somewhat  from 

productions, 

and  those  of      the  battle-field,  and  in  the  golden  Italian 

Keats,  Landor, 

and  Coleridge,  clime  of  beauty  and  song,  his  art  instinct 
asserted  itself  ;  his  poetic  faculty  at  once  became 
more  absolute,  and  he  produced  "  The  Cenci," 
"  Prometheus  Unbound,"  and  shorter  lyrical  pieces 
more  than  sufficient  to  prove  his  greatness  in  essen- 
tially creative  work.  And  thus  it  was,  as  we  have 
seen,  with  Keats,  who  caught  by  turns  the  spirits  of 
Greece,  of  Italy,  of  the  North.  Landor  did  the 
same,  with  his  "  Hellenics,"  with  his  "  Pericles  and 


SHELLE  K—  KEA  TS  —  HEINE  1 2  5 

Aspasia,"  " Pentameron,"  and  "Citation  of  Shake- 
speare." But  Landor,  with  the  fieriest  personal  tem- 
per conceivable,  was,  like  Alfieri,  though  of  a  totally 
different  school,  another  being  when  at  work,  an 
artist  to  his  fingers'  ends.  So  was  Coleridge  at 
times,  when  he  shook  himself  like  Samson  :  not  the 
subjective  brother-in-arms  of  Wordsworth,  but  the 
Coleridge  of  the  imagination  and  haunting  melody 
and  sovereign  judgment  unparalleled  in  his  time,  — • 
Coleridge  of  "  The  Ancient  Mariner,"  and  "  Christa- 
bel,"  and  "  Kubla  Khan,"  whose  loss  to  the  highest 
field  of  poetic  design  is  something  for  which  one 
never  can  quite  forgive  theology  and  metaphysics. 
Of  Wordsworth,  the  real  master  of  the  Wordsworth. 
Victorian  self-absorption,  I  shall  speak  at  another 
time,  with  respect  to  our  modern  conception  of  the 
sympathetic  quality  of  nature.  To  conclude,  the 
prodigal  Georgian  school,  springing  from  The  Georgian 
a  soil  that  had  lain  fallow  for  a  hundred  SchooL 
years,  was  devoted  as  a  whole  to  self-utterance,  but 
magnificently  so.  Of  course  a  reaction  set  in,  and 
we  now  complete  the  more  restrained,  scholarly,  an- 
alytic, artistic  Victorian  period,  —  a  time,  I  fully 
believe,  of  equally  imaginative  effort,  yet  of  an 
effort,  as  we  shall  see,  that  usually  has  taken,  so  far 
as  concerns  dramatic  invention,  a  direction  other 
than  rhythmic. 

Meanwhile,  Heinrich  Heine,  of  the  intermediate 
generation,  and  the  countryman  of  Goethe,     Heine, 
began,  one  might  say,  where  Byron  left  off.     His 


126  MELANCHOLIA 


whole  song  is  the  legacy  of  his  personal  mood,  but 
that  was  full  of  restless  changes  from  tears  and 
laughter,  from  melody  and  love  and  tenderness,  to 
scorn  and  cynicism,  and  again  from  agnosticism  to 
faith.  In  youth,  and  at  intervals  until  his  death,  his 
dominant  key  was  like  Byron's,  —  dissatisfaction, 
longing,  the  pursuit  of  an  illusive  ideal,  the  love  of 
love  and  fame.  There  was  an  apparent  decline, 
after  disordered  years,  in  Byron's  powers  both  physi- 
cal and  mental.  Yet  his  Greek  campaign  bade  fair 
to  bring  him  to  something  better  than  his  best.  He 
had  the  soldier's  temperament.  Action  of  the  he- 
roic kind  was  what  he  needed,  and  might  have  led 
to  the  "sudden  making"  of  a  still  more  splendid 
name.  Heine  was  many  beings  in  one :  a  Jew  by 
race,  a  German  by  birth,  a  Parisian  by  adoption, 
taste,  and  instinct  for  the  beautiful.  His  outlook, 
then,  was  broader  than  that  of  the  English  poet. 
His  writing  was  also  a  revolt,  but  against  the  age  as 
that  of  a  Jew,  and  against  contemporary  Philistin- 
ism as  that  of  an  Arcadian.  Byron  became  a  cos- 
/  mopolite ;  Heine  was  born  one.  In  the  world's 
theatre  he  stood  behind  the  scenes  of  the  motley 
"Mostmusi-  human  drama.  He  wrought  its  plaint  and 

cal,  most  11-  r  • 

melancholy."  laughter  into  a  fantastic  music  of  his  own, 
with  a  genius  both  sorrowful  and  sardonic  ;  always 
like  one  enduring  life  as  a  penance,  and  suffering 
from  the  acute  consciousness  of  some  finer  exist- 
ence the  clew  to  which  was  denied  him  :  — 


TEMPERAMENT  I2/ 

"  In  every  clime  and  country 

There  lives  a  Man  of  Pain, 
Whose  nerves,  like  chords  of  lightning, 

Bring  fire  into  his  brain : 
To  him  a  whisper  is  a  wound, 

A  look  or  sneer  a  blow ; 
More  pangs  he  feels  in  years  or  months 

Than  dunce-throng'd  ages  know." 

Heine  felt,  and  avowed,  that  the  actual  song-motive 
is  a  heart-wound,  without  which  "  the  true  poet  can- 
not sing  sweetliest."     His  mocking  note,  •n.e,,,^^,,™ 
which  from  its  nature  was  not  the  sanest  note> 
art,  was  quickly  caught  by  younger  poets,  and  re- 
peated as  if  they,  too,  meant  it,  and  for  its  air  of  ex- 
perience  and  maturity.     With    real   maturity  they 
usually  hastened  to  escape  from  it  altogether. 

I  think  that  the  impersonal  element  in  art  may  be 
termed  masculine,  and  that  there  is  some-  The  major  and 

,.,....  ,,.  .  ,  minor  keys  of 

thing  feminine  in  a  controlling  impulse  to  lyncsong. 
lay  bare  one's  own  heart  and  experience.  This  is  as 
it  should  be  :  certainly  a  man's  attributes  are  pride 
and  strength,  —  strength  to  wrestle,  upon  occasion, 
without  speech  until  the  daybreak.  The  fire  of  the 
absolutely  virile  workman  consumes  its  own  smoke. 
But  the  artistic  temperament  is,  after  all,  androgy- 
nous. The  woman's  intuition,  sensitiveness,  ner- 
vous refinement  join  with  the  reserved  power  and 
creative  vigor  of  the  man  to  form  the  poet.  As 
those  or  these  predominate,  we  have  the  major 


128  MELANCHOLIA 


strain,  or  the  minor  appeal  for  human  sympathy  and 
the  proffer  of  it.  A  man  must  have  a  notable  gift 
or  a  very  exalted  nature  to  make  people  grateful  for 
his  confessions.  The  revelations  of  the  feminine 
heart  are  the  more  beautiful  and  welcome,  because 
the  typical  woman  is  purer,  more  unselfish,  more 
consecrated,  than  the  typical  man.  Through  her 
ardent  self-revelations  our  ideals  of  sanctity  are 
maintained.  She  may  even,  like  a  child,  be  least 
self-conscious  when  most  unrestrained  in  self-ex- 
pression. Assuredly  this  was  so  in  the  case  of  the 
Mrs  Brown-  greatest  woman-poet  the  modern  world 
has  known.  Mrs.  Browning's  lyrics, 
every  verse  sealed  with  her  individuality,  glowing 
with  sympathy,  and  so  unconsciously  and  unsel- 
fishly displaying  the  nobility  of  her  heart  and  intel- 
lect, have  made  the  earth  she  trod  sacred,  and  her 
resting-place  a  shrine.  Her  impassioned  numbers 
are  her  most  artistic.  The  "  Sonnets  from  the  Por- 
tuguese," at  the  extreme  of  proud  self -avowal,  are 
equal  in  beauty,  feeling,  and  psychical  analysis  to 
any  series  of  sonnets  in  any  tongue,  —  Shakespeare's 
not  excepted. 

I  have  alluded  to  Alfieri.  The  poets  of  modern 
National  Italy,  romantic  as  they  are,  still  derive 
closely  from  the  antique,  and  they  have 
applied  themselves  considerably  to  the  drama  and  to 
the  higher  lyrical  forms  of  verse.  Chafing  as  they 
did  so  long  under  the  Austrian  sway,  their  more  ele- 
vated odes,  as  you  will  see  in  Mr.  Howells's  treatise, 


OVER-CONSCIOUS  ART  129 

have  been  charged  with  "the  longing  for  freedom, 
the  same  impulse  toward  unity,  toward  nationality, 
toward  Italy."  Poetry  that  has  been  the  voice  and 
force  of  a  nation  occupies,  as  I  have  said,  a  middle 
ground  between  our  two  extremes.  It  has  an  altru- 
istic quality.  The  same  generous  fervor  impetu- 
ously distinguished  the  trumpet-tongued  lyrics  of 
our  Hebraic  Whittier,  and  the  unique  outgivings  of 
Lowell's  various  muse,  in  behalf  of  liberty  and  right. 
Those  were  "  Noble  Numbers  ; "  and,  in  truth,  the 
representative  national  sentiment  —  of  which  ideas 
of  liberty,  domesticity,  and  religion  are  chief  com- 
ponents—  pervades  the  lyrics  of  our  elder  Ameri- 
can poets  from  Bryant  to  Taylor  and  Stoddard. 
Whitman's  faith  in  the  common  people,  in  de- 
mocracy strong  and  simple,  has  gained  him  world- 
wide honor.  Subjective  as  they  are,  few  poets,  in 
any  era  or  country  —  and  historians  will  come  to 
recognize  this  clearly  —  have  been  more  national 
than  our  own. 

The  latest  school,  with  its  motto  of  art  for  art's 
sake,  has  industriously  refined  music,  self-conscious 
color,  design,  and  the  invention  of  forms.  *' 
But  its  poets  and  painters  show  a  kind  of  self-con- 
sciousness in  the  ostentatious  preference  of  their 
art  to  themselves,  even  in  their  prostration  at  the 
feet  of  "Our  Lady  of  Beauty."  Their  motive  is  so 
intrusive  that  the  result,  although  alluring,  often 
smacks  of  artisanship  rather  than  of  free  and  natural 


1 30  MELANCHOLIA 


art.  Their  early  leaders,  such  as  the  young  Tenny- 
son and  Rossetti  in  England,  and  Gautier  in  France, 
effected  a  potent,  a  charming,  a  sorely  needed  resto- 
ration of  the  beautiful.  But  the  Laureate  has  lived 
to  see  another  example  of  his  own  saying  that  a 
good  fashion  may  corrupt  the  world.  The  French 
Parnassiens,  the  English-writing  Neo-Romanticists, 
are  more  constructive  than  spontaneous,  and  deco- 
rative most  of  all.  They  have  so  diffused  the  tech- 
nic  of  finished  verse  that  the  making  of  it  is  no 
Findestecie.  more  noteworthy  than  a  certain  excel- 
lence in  piano  playing.  They  plainly  believe,  with 
Schopenhauer,  that  "  everything  has  been  sung. 
Everything  has  been  cursed.  There  is  nothing  left 
for  poetry  but  to  be  the  glowing  forge  of  words." 

This  curious,  seemingly  impersonal  poetry,  corn- 
Latter-day        posed  with  set  purpose,  finds  a  counterpart 
in  some  of  the  bewildering  recent  archi- 
tecture.    How  rarely  can  we  say  of  the  architect 
and  his  work, 

"  He  builded  better  than  he  knew : 
The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew." 

The  artist  and  the  builder  are  too  seldom  one.  The 
poet  just  quoted,  when  on  a  trip  to  New  Hampshire, 
found  a  large  building  going  up  in  a  country  town. 
"Who  is  the  architect  ?"  he  said.  "Oh,  there  is  n't 
any  architect  settled  upon  as  yet,"  was  the  reply ; 
"  I  'm  just  a-building  it,  you  see,  and  there's  a  chap 
coming  from  Boston  next  month  to  put  the  archi- 
tecture into  it."  So  it  is  with  a  good  deal  of  our 


.  FIN  DE  SIECLE  131 

latter-day  verse.  It  does  not  rise  "  like  an  exhala- 
tion." It  is  merely  the  similitude  of  the  impersonal, 
and  art  for  the  artist's  sake  rather  than  its  lack  cf 

the  creative 

for  the  sake  of  art.  Its  one  claim  to  ob-  impersonality, 
jectivity  is,  in  fact,  the  lack  of  any  style  whatever, 
except  that  derived  by  the  rank  and  file  from  their 
study  of  the  chiefs.  It  is  all  in  the  fashion,  and  all 
done  equally  well.  Even  the  leaders,  true  and  indi- 
vidual poets  as  they  have  been,  —  Tennyson,  Ros- 
setti,  Swinburne,  Morris,  Sully  Prudhomme,  Banville, 
—  often  have  seemed  to  compose  perfunctorily,  not 
from  inspired  impulse.  Read  "The  Earthly  Para- 
dise," that  seductive,  tranquillizing:,  pro-  Morris  and 

Walter  Scott: 

longed,  picturesque  rehearsal  of  the  old  an  illustration, 
wonder-tales.  Its  phantasmagoric  golden  haze,  so 
often  passing  into  twilight  sadness,  has  veiled  the 
quality  of  youth  in  those  immortal  legends.  What 
is  this  that  Morris  fails  to  capture  in  his  forays 
upon  the  "Odyssey,"  the  "Decameron,"  Chaucer,  the 
"Gesta  Romanorum,"  the  "Edda,"  the  "Nibelungen 
Lied  "  ?  Can  it  never  come  again  ?  Has  it  really 
passed  away?  Did  it  wake  for  the  last  time  in  those 
lusty  octosyllabic  romances  of  the  Wizard  of  the 
North,  such  as  "  Marmion "  and  the  "  Lay  of  the 
Last  Minstrel "  ?  Careless,  faulty,  diffuse  as  they 
were,  those  cantos  were  as  alive  as  Scotland  herself, 
and  fresh  with  the  same  natural  genius,  disdaining 
to  hoard  itself,  that  produced  the  Waverley  novels. 
If  Scott  has  had  no  successor,  it  is  doubtless  because 
the  age  has  needed  none.  We  have  moved  into 


1 3  2  MELA  NCHOLIA 


another  plane,  not  necessarily  a  lower  but  certainly  a 
different  one. 

With  respect  to  style,  Swinburne  is  the  most  sub- 
jective of  contemporary  poets,  yet  he  has  made  nota- 
ble successes  in  dramatic  verse,  —  chief  of  all,  and 
earliest,  the  "Atalanta  in  Calydon,"  with  whose 
Swinburne,  auroral  light  a  new  star  arose  above  our 
horizon.  Nothing  had  been  comparable  to  its  im- 
aginative music  since  the  "  Prometheus  Unbound," 
and  it  surpassed  even  that  —  for  its  author  had 
Shelley  for  a  predecessor  —  in  miracles  of  rhyth- 
mic melody.  The  "  Prometheus  "  surges  with  its 
author's  appeal  from  tyranny;  "Atalanta"  is  a 
pure  study  in  the  beautiful,  as  statuesque  as  if  done 
in  Pentelican  marble.  Its  serene  verse,  impressive 
even  in  the  monometric  dialogue,  its  monologues 
and  transcendent  choruses,  —  conceived  in  the  spirit 
of  Grecian  art,  but  introducing  cadences  unknown 
before,  —  all  these  are  of  the  first  order.  The 
human  feeling  that  we  miss  in  "  Atalanta "  is,  on 
the  other  hand,  a  dramatic  factor  in  Swinburne's 
Trilogy  of  Mary  Stuart.  But  in  his  most  impersonal 
The  worth  and  work  his  fiery  lyrical  gift  and  individuality 

disadvantage 

of  a  strongly      will  not  be  suppressed.    The  noble  dramas 

individual 

style.  of  Henry  Taylor  and  Hengist  Home  are 

more  objective,  but  cannot  vie  with  Swinburne's  in 
poetic  splendor.  Now,  as  you  know,  this  unrivalled 
voice  is  instantly  recognized  in  his  narrative  ro- 
mances, or  in  any  strophe  or  stanza  of  his  plenteous 
odes  and  songs.  The  result  is  that  his  vogue  has 


6"  WINB  URNE  —  A  RNOLD  1 3  3 

suffered.  His  metrical  genius  is  too  specific,  too 
enthralling,  to  be  over-long  endured.  Thus  the 
distinctive  tone,  however  beautiful,  which  soonest 
compels  attention,  as  quickly  satiates  the  public. 
The  subjective  poets  who  restrict  their  fertility,  or 
who  die  young,  are  those  whom  the  world  canonizes 
before  their  bones  are  dust. 

While,  then,  a  few  modern  poets,  at  times  as 
absorbed  as  Greeks  in  their  work,  have  Temperament. 
been  strenuously  impulsive  in  temper  and  in  the 
conduct  of  life,  —  among  them  Alfieri,  Foscolo, 
Hugo,  Landor,  Horne,  and  various  lights  of  the 
art -school  from  Keats  onward,  —  the  artist's  tem- 
perament usually  in  the  end  determines  the  order  of 
his  product :  clearly  so  in  such  cases  as  those  of 
Leopardi,  James  Thomson,  Baudelaire,  Poe.  Sym- 
pathetic examination  of  the  poetry  will  give  you  the 
poet.  A  fine  recent  instance  of  an  intro-  Arnold's 

conflict  with 

spective  nature  overcoming  the  purpose  his  genius, 
formed  by  critical  judgment  was  that  of  Matthew 
Arnold.  A  preface  to  the  second  edition  of  his 
poems  avowed  and  defended  his  poetic  creed.  Re- 
flection upon  the  antique,  and  the  study  of  Goethe, 
had  convinced  him  that  only  objective  art  is  of 
value,  and  that  the  most  of  that  which  is  infected 
with  modern  sentiment  is  dilettanteism.  Art  must 
be  preferred  to  ourselves.  Action  is  the  main 
thing ;  more  than  human  dramatic  greatness  alone 
saves  even  Shakespeare's  dramas  from  being  weak- 


1 34  MELA  NCHOLIA 


ened  by  "felicities"  of  thought  and  expression. 
The  poet-critic  accordingly  proffered  his  two  heroic 
episodes,  "  Balder  Dead  "  and  "  Sohrab  and  Rustum," 
His  —  both  "  Homeric  echoes,"  though  in 

objective 

studies.  their   slow  iambic   majesty  violating   his 

own  canon  that  the  epic  movement  should  be  swift. 
These  are  indeed  the  tours  de  force  of  intellect  and 
constructive  taste.  There  are  fine  things  in  both, 
but  the  finest  passages  are  reflective,  Arnoldian,  or, 
like  the  sonorous  impersonation  of  the  river  Oxus, 
and  the  picture  of  Balder's  funeral  pyre,  elaborately 
descriptive,  and  unrelated  to  the  action  of  the 
poems.  Now,  these  blank-verse  structures  are  not 
quite  spontaneous ;  they  do  not  possess  what  Arnold 
himself  calls  the  "  note  of  the  inevitable."  The 
ancients,  doing  by  instinct  what  he  bade  us  imitate, 
had  no  cause  to  lay  down  such  a  maxim  as  his,  — 
that  the  poet  "is  most  fortunate  when  he  most 
entirely  succeeds  in  effacing  himself."  They  worked 
in  the  manner  of  their  time.  Schlegel  points  out 
that  when  even  the  Greeks  imitated  Greeks  their 
triumph  ended.  A  modern,  who  does  this  upon 
principle,  virtually  fails  to  profit  by  their  example. 
In  the  end  he  has  to  yield.  Arnold  was  beloved  by 
His  more  his  pupils  —  by  those  whom  he  stimulated 

spontaneous 

expression.  as  Emerson  stimulated  American  idealists 
—  for  the  poetry  wherein  he  was  in  truth  most  for- 
tunate, that  is,  in  which  he  most  entirely  and  unre- 
servedly expressed  himself ;  in  verse,  for  the  tender, 
personal,  subtly  reflective  lyrics  that  seem  like 


ARNOLDS  CREED  AND  SONG  135 

tremulous  passages  from  a  psychical  journal ;  most 
of  all,  perhaps,  for  those  which  so  convey  the  spirit 
of  youth,  —  the  youth  of  his  own  doubting,  search- 
ing, freedom-sworn  Oxonian  group  —  a  group  among 
whom  he  and  Clough,  his  scholar-gypsy,  were  leaders 
in  their  search  for  unsophisticated  nature  and  life, 
in  their  regret  for  inaction,  their  yearning  for  new 
light,  their  belief  that  love  and  hope  are  the  most 
that  we  can  get  from  this  mortal  existence.  It  was 
Arnold's  sensitive  and  introspective  temperament, 
so  often  saddening  him,  that  brought  his  intellect 
into  perfect  comprehension  of  Heine,  Joubert,  S6- 
nancour,  and,  doubtless,  Amiel.  His  ca-  "Look  in  thy 

heart  and 

reer  strengthens  my  belief  that  the  true  write." 
way  is  the  natural  one, — that  way  into  which  the 
artist  is  led  by  impulse,  modified  by  the  disposition 
of  his  time.  Burns  was  a  force  because  he  was  not 
Greek,  nor  even  English,  but  Scottish,  entirely  na- 
tional, and  withal  intensely  personal.  Scott's  epics 
are  founded  in  the  true  romantic  ballads  of  the 
North.  A  few  of  us  read  and  delight  in  "  Balder 
Dead  ;  "  "  Marmion,"  a  less  artistic  poem,  gave  plea- 
sure far  and  wide,  and  still  holds  its  own.  I  confess 
that  this  again  suggests  my  old  question  concerning 
Landor,  "  Shall  not  the  wise,  no  less  than  the  wit- 
less, have  their  poets  ? "  and  that,  whether  wise  or 
otherwise,  I  prefer  to  read  "  Balder  Dead ;  "  but  I 
have  observed  that  poetry,  however  admi-  Aconsid- 
rable,  which  appeals  solely  to  a  studious 
class  rarely  becomes  in  the  end  a  part  of  the  world's 


136  MELANCHOLIA 


literature.  Palgrave,  in  the  preface  to  "The  Golden 
Treasury,"  significantly  declares  that  he  "  has  found 
the  vague  general  verdict  of  popular  Fame  more  just 
than  those  have  thought  who,  with  too  severe  a 
criticism,  would  confine  judgments  on  poetry  to 
'the  selected  few  of  many  generations.'  " 

Like  Arnold,  nearly  all  his  famous  peers  of  the 
The  composite  recent  composite  period  have  made  attrac- 
tive experiments  in  the  objective  and  an- 
tique fields,  though  less  openly  upon  conviction. 
Yet  Tennyson  and  Browning  are  essentially  English 
and  modern,  as  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Whittier,  are 
American  and  New-English,  while  Lowell's  memora- 
ble verse  is  true  to  the  atmosphere,  landscape,  na- 
tional spirit,  dialect,  of  his  own  land,  and  always 
true  to  his  ethical  convictions.  Our  minor  artists  in 
verse  succeed  as  to  simplicity  and  sensuousness 
in  their  renaissance  work,  but  fail  with  respect  to 
its  passion,  —  for  to  simulate  that  requires  vigorous 
dramatic  power.  The  latter  is  rarely  displayed  ;  its 
substitute  is  the  note  of  Self.  If  this  be  so,  let  us 
make  the  best  of  it,  and  furnish  striking  individuali- 
ties for  some  future  age  to  admire,  as  we  admire  the 
creations  of  our  predecessors.  At  all  events,  the 
poet  must  not  dare  anything  against  nature.  Let 
him  obey  Wordsworth's  injunction, 

"  If  thou  indeed  derive  thy  light  from  Heaven, 
Then,  to  the  measure  of  that  heaven-born  light, 
Shine,  Poet  1  in  thy  place,  and  be  content." 


CREATIVE  PROSE   FICTION  137 

But  are  there,  then,  no  dramatic  works  in  recent 
literature  ?     Yes  ;  more  than  in  any  former  time,  if 
you  do  not    insist  upon  poetic  form   and  rhythm. 
While  the  restriction  adopted   for  these  The  modern 
lectures  excludes  that  which  is  merely  in-  and^cWe"1 

.    .  mode  of 

ventive  composition,  you  know  that  prose  activity, 
fiction  is  now  the  principal  result  of  our  dramatic 
impulse.     The  great    modern   novels  are  Our  prose  fie- 

•f  i  c  i  t'°n'      *-P- 

more  significant  than  much  of  our  best  "Poets of 

America": 

poetry.  What  recent  impersonal  poem  or  P-  463- 
drama,  if  you  except  "  Faust,"  excels  in  force  and 
characterization  "  Guy  Mannering  "  and  the  "  Bride 
of  Lammermoor,"  "  Notre  Dame  de  Paris,"  "  Les 
Trois  Mousquetaires,"  "  Pere  Goriot,"  "  On  the 
Heights,"  "  Dimitri  Rudini,"  "Anna  Karenina," 
"With  Fire  and  Sword,"  "Vanity  Fair,"  "Henry 
Esmond,"  "The  Newcomes,"  "Bleak  House,"  "The 
Tale  of  Two  Cities,"  "The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth," 
"Westward  Ho!"  "Adam  Bede,"  "Romola,"  "Lorna 
Doone,"  "Wuthering  Heights,"  "The  Pilot,"  "The 
Scarlet  Letter,"  "  The  Deluge,"  and  other  prose 
masterpieces  with  which  you  are  as  familiar  as  ^vere 
the  Athenians  with  the  plays  of  Euripides  ?  More 
than  one  of  them,  it  is  true,  reflects  the  author's 
inner  life  (but  so  does  "  Faust "),  and  is  all  the  more 
intense  for  it.  The  free  nature  of  the  novel  seems 
to  make  subjectivity  itself  dramatic.  Certainly,  the 
individuality  of  a  Bronte",  a  Thackeray,  a  Hawthorne, 
or  a  Meredith  does  not  lead  us  to  prefer  G.  P.  R. 
James,  or  put  them  on  a  lower  plane  than  the  strictly 


1 3  8  MELANCHOLIA 


objective  one  of  De  Foe,  Jane  Austen,  Dumas.  Our 
second-rate  novels  are  chiefly  mechanical  inventions 
turned  off  for  a  market  which  the  modern  press  has 
created  and  is  ominously  enlarging.  However,  with 
such  an  outlet  for  the  play  of  the  invention  which, 
three  centuries  ago,  spent  its  strength  upon  the 
rhythmical  drama,  it  is  no  wonder  that  even  our 
foremost  poets  look  out  to  rival  ranges,  with  now 
and  then  still  another  peak  above  them  ;  and  these 
lectures  would  seem  an  anachronism  were  it  not 
that  it  is  a  good  time  to  observe  the  nature  of  an 
object  when  it  is  temporarily  inactive. 

Except  for  this  prose  fiction   superadded   to  the 
best  poetic  achievements  of   the  modern 

The  mne- 

tury^iuiiter-    schools,  the  nineteenth  century  would  not 

ary  distinction.     haye    ^^    ^    j    believe    it    to    have    been> 

nearly  equal  in  general  literary  significance  (as  in 
science  it  is  superior)  to  the  best  that  preceded  it. 
It  is  difficult  for  critics  to  project  themselves  beyond 
their  time ;  perceiving  its  shortcomings,  they  are 
prone  to  underestimate  what  in  after  time  may  seem 
a  peculiar  literary  eminence.  To  all  the  splendor 
of  our  greatest  fiction  must  be  united  the  romance  of 
the  Georgian  poetic  school  and  the  composite  beauty 
and  thought  of  the  Victorian,  that  this  statement 
may  be  sound  with  respect  to  the  literature  of  our 
own  language.  While  poetry  and  fiction  both  have 
to  do  with  verities,  Mill  was  not  wrong  when  he  said 
that  the  novelist  gives  us  a  true  picture  of  life,  but 
the  poet,  the  truth  of  the  soul. 


OUR  LOSS  AND  GAIN  139 

From  our  survey,  after  granting  that  only  a  few 
world-poems  exhibit  the  absolute  epic  and  dramatic 
impersonality,  it  by  no  means  follows  —  in  spite  of 
common  assertion  —  that  the  worth  of 


other  poetry  is  determined  by  an  objec-  thechieftest 


Objectivity  not 
the  chief  t 
of  poetic 

tive  standard.  The  degree  of  self-expres-  gen'U9' 
sion  is  of  less  moment  than  that  of  the  poet's  genius, 
Subjective  work  is  judged  to  be  inferior,  I  take  it, 
from  its  morbid  examples.  The  visits  of  the  crea- 
tive masters  have  been  as  rare  as  those  of  national 
demigods,  and  ordinary  composers  fall  immeasu- 
rably short  of  their  station.  We  have  the  perfect 
form,  historical  or  fanciful  impersonations,  but  few 
striking  conceptions.  The  result  is  less  sincere, 
less  inevitable,  than  the  spontaneous  utterance  of 
true  poets  who  yield  to  the  passion  of  self-expres- 
sion. 

Yet  we  have  seen  that  a  line  can  be  rather  clearly 
drawn  between  the   pagan  and  Christian  Theojdand 

.       ,  ,  .  _        new  dispensa- 

eras,  and  that  there  has  been  a  loss.  To  tic™, 
think  of  this  as  a  loss  without  some  greater  compen- 
sation is  to  believe  that  modern  existence  defies  the 
law  of  evolution  and  is  inferior  as  a  whole  to  the 
old;  that  the  soul  of  Christendom,  because  more 
perturbed  and  introspective,  is  less  elevated  than 
that  of  antiquity.  Contrast  the  two,  and  what  do 
we  find  ?  First,  a  willing  self-effacement  as  against 
the  distinction  of  individuality ;  secondly,  the  simple 
zest  of  art-creation,  as  against  the  luxury  of  human 


140  MELANCHOLIA 

feeling  —  a  sense  that  nourishes  the  flame  of  conso- 
lation and  proffers  sympathy  even  as  it  craves  it ;  — 

"  That  from  its  own  love  Love's  delight  can  tell, 

And  from  its  own  grief  guess  the  shrouded  Sorrow ; 
From  its  own  joyousness  of  Joy  can  sing ; 

That  can  predict  so  well 
From  its  own  dawn  the  lustre  of  to-morrow, 
The  whole  flight  from  the  flutter  of  the  wing." 

This  sympathy,  this  divinely  human  love,  is  our 
legacy  from  the  Teacher  who  read  all  joys  and  sor- 
rows by  reading  his  own  heart,  being  of  like  passions 
with  ourselves, —  a  process  wisely  learned  by  those 
fortunate  poets  who  need  not  fear  to  obey  the 
maxim,  "  Look  in  thy  heart  and  write  ! " 

The  Christian  motive  has  intensified  the  self- 
conventuai  expression  of  the  modern  singer.  That 
introspection,  fa  js  subject  to  dangers  from  which  the 
pagan  was  exempt,  we  cannot  deny.  His  process 
may  result  in  egotism,  conceit,  the  disturbed  vision 
of  eyes  too  long  strained  inward,  delirious  extremes 
of  feeling,  decline  of  the  creative  gift.  Probably 
the  conventual,  middle-age  Church,  with  its  retreats, 
penances,  ecstasies,  was  the  nursery  of  our  self- 
absorption  and  mysticism,  the  alembic  of  the  vapor 
which  Heine  saw  infolding  and  chilling  the  Homeric 
gods  when  the  pale  Jew,  crowned  with  thorns,  en- 
tered and  laid  his  cross  upon  their  ban- 

Dttrer's  "  Me- 

th"CM^of  quet-table.  It  is  not  the  wings  alone  of 
Christendom.  £)Urer's  myStic  «  Mclencolia  "  that  declare 
her  to  be  a  Christian  figure.  She  sits  among  the 


THE  MUSE  OF  CHRISTENDOM  141 

well-used  emblems  of  all  arts,  the  ruins  of  past 
achievements,  the  materials  for  effort  yet  to  come. 
Toil  is  her  inspiration,  exploration  her  instinct :  she 
broods,  she  suffers,  she  wonders,  but  must  still  ex- 
plore and  design.  The  new  learning  is  her  guide, 
but  to  what  unknown  lands  ?  The  clew  is  almost 
found,  yet  still  escapes  her.  Of  what  use  are  beauty, 
love,  worship,  even  justice,  when  above  her  are  the 
magic  square  and  numbers  of  destiny,  and  the  pass- 
ing-bell that  sounds  the  end  of  all  ?  Before,  stretches 
an  ocean  that  hems  her  in.  What  beyond,  and  after  ? 
There  is  a  rainbow  of  promise  in  the  sky,  but  even 
beneath  that  the  baneful  portent  of  a  flaming  star. 
Could  Durer's  "  Melencolia "  speak,  she  might  in- 
deed utter  the  sweet  and  brave,  yet  pathetic,  poetry 
of  our  own  speculative  day. 

Our  view  of  the  poetic  temperament  is  doubtless 
a  modern  conceit.  The  ancient  took  life  Neurotic 
as  he  found  it,  and  was  content.  Death  sensitiveness- 
he  accepted  as  a  law  of  nature.  Desire,  the  lust  for 
the  unattainable,  aspiration,  regret, — these  are  our 
endowment,  and  our  sufferings  are  due  less  to  our 
slights  and  failures  than  to  our  own  sensitiveness. 
Effort  is  required  to  free  our  introspective  rapture 
and  suffering  from  the  symptoms  of  a  disease.  Yet 
there  is  no  inevitable  relation  between  disease  and 
genius,  and  it  is  chiefly  in  modern  song  that  "  great 
wits  are  sure  to  madness  near  allied."  Undoubtedly 
at  feverish  crises  a  flood  of  wild  imaginings  over- 
whelms us.  Typical  poets  have  acknowledged  this, 


142  MELANCHOLIA 


—  Coleridge,  Byron,  Heine,  who  cite  also  the  cases 
of  Collins,  Cowper,  Novalis,  Hoffmann,  and  other 
children  of  fantasy  and  sorrow.  Coleridge  pointed 
to  those  whose  genius  and  pursuits  are  subjective, 
as  often  being  diseased  ;  while  men  of  equal  fame, 
whose  pursuits  are  objective  and  universal,  the  New- 
tons  and  Leibnitzes,  usually  have  been  long-lived 
and  in  robust  health.  Bear  in  mind,  however,  the 
change  latterly  exemplified  by  Wordsworth,  Tenny- 
son, Browning,  Hugo,  and  our  vigorous  American 
Pleiad  of  elder  minstrels,  who  have  exhibited  the 
sane  mind  in  the  sound  body.  But  the  question  of 
neurotic  disorder  did  not  occur  to  the  age  of  Sopho- 
The  health  of  cles  an^  Pindar.  Impersonal  effort  is  as 
invigorating  as  nature  itself :  so  much  so 
that  Ruskin  recognizes  the  great  writer  by  his  guid- 
ing us  far  from  himself  to  the  beauty  not  of  his  cre- 
ation; and  Couture,  a  virile  figure,  avowed  that  "the 
decline  of  art  commenced  with  the  appearance  of 
personality."  Goethe,  in  spite  of  his  own  theory, 
admitted  that  the  real  fault  of  the  new  poets  is  that 
"their  subjectivity  is  not  important,  and  that  they 
cannot  find  matter  in  the  objective."  The  young 
poets  of  our  own  tongue  are  not  in  a  very  different 
category.  The  best  critic,  then,  is  the  universalist, 
who  sees  the  excellence  of  either  phase  of  expres- 
sion according  as  it  is  natural  to  one's  race  and 
period.  A  laudable  subjectivity  dwells  in  natural- 
ness,—  the  lyrical  force  of  genuine  emotions,  in- 
cluding those  animated  by  the  Zeitgeist  of  one's 


HEART  ANSWERETH  HEART  143 

own  day.    All  other  kinds  degenerate  into  sentimen- 
talism. 

If  we  have  lost  the  antique  zest,  the  animal  happi- 
ness, the  naivete"  of  blessed  children  who  Modem 

rr-     '  IT  i  ideality:  the 

know  not  the  insufficiency  of  life,  or  that  loss  and  gain, 
they  shall  love  and  lose  and  die,  we  gain  a  new 
potency  of  art  in  a  sublime  seriousness,  the  heroism 
that  confronts  destiny,  the  faculty  of  sympathetic 
consolation,  and  that  "most  musical,  most  melan- 
choly" sadness  which  conveys  a  rarer  beauty  than 
the  gladdest  joy,  —  the  sadness  of  great  souls,  the 
art-equivalent  of  the  melancholy  of  the  Preacher,  of 
Lincoln,  of  Christ  himself,  who  wept  often  but  was 
rarely  seen  to  smile.  The  Christian  world  has  added 
the  minor  notes  to  the  gamut  of  poesy.  It  discovers 
that  if  indeed  "  our  sweetest  songs  are  those  which 
tell  of  saddest  thought,"  it  is  better  to  suffer  than  to 
lose  the  power  of  suffering. 

Commonplace  objective  work,  then,  is  of  no  worth 
compared  with  the  frank  revelation  of  an  "To thine 

*    f  f  own  self  be 

inspiring  soul.  Our  human  feeling  now  true-" 
seeks  for  the  personality  of  the  singer  to  whom  we 
yield  our  heart.  Even  Goethe  breaks  out  with 
"  Personality  is  everything  in  art  and  poetry  ; " 
Schlegel  declares  that  "  a  man  can  give  nothing  to 
his  fellow-man  but  himself  ;"  and  Joubert  —  whom 
Sainte-Beuve  has  followed  —  says,  "We  must  have 
the  man.  ...  It  is  human  warmth  and  almost 
human  substance  which  gives  to  all  things  that 
quality  which  charms  us."  This  fact  is  a  strong- 


144  MELANCHOLIA 


hold  for  the  true  impressionists.  The  special  way  in 
which  his  theme  strikes  the  artist  is  his  latter-day 
appeal.  And  what  is  style  ?  That  must  be  subjec- 
tive. Some  believe  it  to  be  the  only  thing  which  is 
the  author's  own.  The  modern  mind  understands 
that  its  compensation  for  the  loss  of  absolute  vision 
is  the  increase  of  types,  the  extension  of  range  and 
variousness.  These  draw  us  nearer  the  plan  of 
nature,  that  makes  no  two  leaves  alike.  The  value 
of  a  new  piece  of  art  now  is  the  tone  peculiar  to  its 
maker's  genius.  Death  in  art,  as  in  nature,  is  now 
the  loss  of  individuality,  —  a  resolution  into  the  ele- 
ments. We  seek  the  man  behind  the  most  imper- 
sonal work  ;  more,  the  world  conceives  for  itself 
ideals  of  its  poets,  artists,  and  heroes,  plainly  differ- 
ent from  what  they  were,  yet  adapted  to  the  sugges- 
tions received  from  their  works  and  deeds. 

My  summary,  then,  is  that  the  test  of  poetry  is 
The  essential     not  by  its  degree  of  objectivity.     Our  in- 

rule  of 

judgment.  quiry  concerns  the  poet's  inspiration,  his 
production  of  beauty  in  sound  and  sense,  his  imagi- 
nation, passion,  insight,  thought,  motive.  Imper- 
sonal work  may  be  never  so  correct,  and  yet  tame 
and  ineffective.  Such  are  many  of  the  formal  dramas 
and  pseudo-classical  idyls  with  which  modern  litera- 
ture teems.  Go  to,  say  their  authors,  let  us  choose 
subjects  and  make  poems.  The  true  bard  is  chosen 
by  his  theme.  Lowell  "waits"  for  "subjects  that 
hunt  me."  Where  the  nature  of  the  singer  is  noble, 


REALISM  AND  ROMANTICISM  145 

his  inner  life  superior  to  that  of  other  men,  the  more 
he  gives  us  of  it  the  more  deeply  we  are  moved. 
We  suffer  with  him  ;  he  makes  us  sharers  of  his 
own  joy.  In  any  case  the  value  of  the  poem  lies  in 
the  credentials  of  the  poet. 

It  is  the  same  with  all  other  speculations  upon 
art  :  with  that,  for  instance,  concerning  Disputed 
realism  and  romanticism,  of  late  so  tedi-  £t. 
ously  bruited.  Debate  of  this  sort,  even  when  re- 
lating to  the  Southern  and  the  Wagnerian  schools 
of  music,  or  to  impressional  and  academic  modes  of 
painting,  is  often  inessential.  It  has,  perchance,  a 
certain  value  in  stimulating  the  members  of  oppos- 
ing schools.  The  true  question  is,  How  good  is 
each  in  its  kind  ?  How  striking  is  the  gift  of  him 
who  works  in  either  fashion  ?  Genius  will  inevitably 
find  its  own  fashion,  and  as  inevitably  will  pursue  it. 


V. 

BEAUTY.          * 

FOR  the  moment,  and  somewhat  out  of  the  order 
of  discussion,  I  will  assume  that  no  poem  poetryasan 
can  have  birth  without  that  unconscious  preSonTf 
process  of   the  soul  which  is  recognized 
in   our   use   of   words   like   "  intuition,"  "  insight," 
"  genius,"  "  inspiration."      Nor   can   it   be   brought 
to  completeness  without  the   exercise  of   conscious 
afterthought.     True   poetry,  however,  is  reinforced 
by   three   dynamic   elements.     No   work   of   art    is 
worth  considering  unless  it  is  more  or  less  effective 
through   beauty,  feeling,   and   imagination ;   and  in 
the  consideration  of  art,  truth  and  ethics  are  a  part 
of  beauty's  fidelity  to  supreme  ideals. 

You  will  find  it  needful  to  examine  the  nature  of 
that  which  is  termed  Beauty,  before  ackowledging 
that    poetry   can   be    no    exception,    but  What  thenj 
rather  the   chief   illustration,  when  it  is  isBeauty? 
declared  that  an  indispensable  function  of  the  arts 
is  the  expression  of  the  beautiful. 

With  respect  to  the  artists  and  critics  who  abjure 
that  declaration,  —  as  when,  for  instance,   The  denial 

of  its  indis- 

a  critic  said  of  an  American  draughtsman  reusability, 
that  he  was  too  fine  an  artist  to   concern    himself 


148  BEAUTY 

about   mere   beauty,  —  I   am    convinced   that   they 
simply  are  in  rebellion  against  hackneyed  standards. 
They  have  adopted  some  fresh,  and  therefore  wel- 
come, notion   as  to  what  is  attractive.     This   they 
have  given  a  new  name,  to  distinguish  it  from  an 
established   and   too   familiar   standard.     They   are 
unwittingly  wooing   beauty  in   a   new  dress,  —  the 
same    goddess,    with    more   disguises    than   Venus 
Mater.     Some  day  they  will  recognize  her,  et  vera 
incessu  patuit  dea,  and   again   be  taught   that   she 
never  permits  her  suitors  to  escape.     She  has  the 
secret  of  keeping  them  loyal  in  spite  of  themselves. 
This  belief  that  they  are  free  is  a  charm  by  which 
she  lures  them  to  her  unknown  haunts,  rewarding 
them  with  the  delight  of  discovery,  or  ironically  per- 
mitting them  to  set  up  claims  for  invention.     One 
may  even  compare  beauty  to  the  wise  and  charming 
wife  who  encourages  a  fickle  husband's  attentions  at 
a  masquerade.     She  has  a  thousand  graces  and  co- 
quetries.    At  last  the  masks  are  removed.     "  What, 
is  it  you  ?     And  still  superior  to  all  others  ! "     He 
needs  must  worship  her  more  than  ever,  and  own 
that  none  can  rival  her  adorable  and  "  infinite  va- 
riety." 

No  ;  the  only  consistent  revolt  is  on  the  part  of 
A  logical  but     those  who  declare   that  she  has  no  real 

purely  Berke-  .  ... 

feian  theory,  existence,  —  that  beauty  is  a  chimera. 
Let  me  confess  at  once  that  I  am  not  in  their 
ranks.  I  doubt  whether  any  artist,  or  any  thinker 
who  honestly  loves  art  and  has  an  instinct  for  it, 


WHETHER  BEAUTY  IS  A    CHIMERA       149 

believes  this  theory  of  aesthetics,  though  he  may 
advocate  it  or  be  driven  into  its  acceptance.  An 
argument  can  be  made  on  that  side,  granting  certain 
premises.  Even  then  it  is  a  dispute  about  terms. 
The  claim  may  serve  for  metaphysicians,  not  for 
those  whose  vocations  relate  to  the  expression  of 
artistic  ideas  in  what  is  called  tangible  form.  Go 
back  to  Berkeley  and  his  forebears,  if  you  like. 
Deny  the  existence  of  all  things,  —  for  that  is  what 
you  must  do  if  you  deny  the  actuality  of  beauty, 
else  you  are  instantly  routed.  Your  only  safe  claim 
is  that  naught  but  soul  exists,  and  this  not  the  gen- 
eral soul,  but  your  own  soul,  your  Ego.  You  think, 
therefore  you  are ;  everything  else  is,  for  all  that  I 
can  prove,  the  caprice  of  your  own  dream.  Some 
of  our  modern  transcendentalists,  vaunting  their 
Platonic  allegiance  to  ideal  beauty,  af-  its  supporters, 
fected  indifference  to  its  material  emblems.  The 
modern  impressionists,  after  all  the  most  ardent 
and  ingenuous  of  technicists,  are  unwittingly  their 
direct  successors.  Now,  the  transcendentalists 
often  were  speculators,  and  not,  as  they  deemed 
themselves,  artists  and  poets.  Having  little  com- 
mand over  the  beautiful,  they  took  refuge  in  dis- 
crediting it.  I  speak  of  certain  of  the  followers  : 
their  chief  was  Argus-eyed.  In  Emerson  Emerson's 
the  true  poet  constantly  broke  loose.  He,  ownview- 
too,  looked  inward  for  the  ideal  beauty,  that  purest 
discovery  of  the  soul,  but  in  song  he  always  recog- 
nized its  visible  reality  :  — 


150  BEAUTY 

"  For  Nature  beats  in  perfect  tune, 
And  rounds  with  rhyme  her  every  rune, 
Whether  she  work  in  land  or  sea, 
Or  hide  underground  her  alchemy. 
Thou  canst  not  wave  thy  staff  in  air, 
Or  dip  thy  paddle  in  the  lake, 
But  it  carves  the  bow  of  beauty  there, 
And  the  ripples  in  rhymes  the  oar  forsake." 

But,  as  I  say,  the  recantation  of  beauty,  by  tran- 
scendentalists,  realists,  and  impressionists  alike,  is 
the  search  for  her  in  some  other  of  her  many 
impres-  realms.  Whatsoever  kingdom  the  im- 
pressionist enters,  he  still  finds  her  on 
the  throne.  For  him  she  may  veil  herself  in  twi- 
light and  half-tints,  —  or  at  rare  instants  of  percep- 
tion in  still  more  witching  drapery  worn  for  him 
alone.  The  individual  impressions  enrich  our  mu- 
seum of  her  portraitures.  The  impressionist  depicts 
her  not  as  she  was  known  to  Pheidias,  or  Raphael, 
or  Velasquez,  but  as  she  appears  to  his  own  favored 
vision.  This  is  the  truth  that  makes  impressionism 
a  brave  factor  in  modern  art  and  poetry.  What 
lessens  its  vantage  is  the  delusion,  absurd  as  Malvo- 
lio's,  of  incompetents,  each  of  whom  fancies  that  he 
is  in  special  favor  and  that  myopic  vision  and  eccen- 
tric technic  result  in  impressions  that  are  worth 
recording. 

Whenever  there  is  a  notable  break  from  that 
mediocrity  falsely  termed  "  correct,"  which  lurks  in 
academic  arras,  it  is  not  a  rebellion  but  a  just  revo- 


EVOLUTION  OF  SCHOOLS  151 

lution.  This  is  why  it  has  been  said  that  "the 
strength  of  Shakespeare  lay  in  the  fact  Art,snew 
that  he  had  no  taste  ;  he  was  not  a  man  departure3. 
of  letters."  But  men  of  letters  now  accept  Shake- 
speare as  their  highest  master.  Thus  every  new 
movement  or  method  in  art  has  the  added  form  of 
strangeness  at  first,  —  of  a  true  romanticism.  In 
time  this,  too,  becomes  classicism  and  academic. 
The  mediocrities,  the  dullards  of  art,  are  ever  the 
camp-followers  of  its  shining  soldiery.  In  every 
campaign,  under  every  mode  that  a  genius  brings 
into  vogue,  they  ultimately  pitch  their  ragged  tents  ; 
and  even  if  they  do  not  sink  the  cause  into  disre- 
pute, they  make  in  time  a  new  departure  necessary. 
In  the  greatest  work,  however,  there  will  be  found 
always  a  fresh  originality  that  is  not  radically 
opposed  to  principles  already  established  ;  you  will 
have  a  union  of  classicism  and  romanticism. 

Any  poem  or  painting  which  produces  a  serious 
and  lasting  impression  will  in  the  end  be  The  -esthetic 
found  to  have  a  beauty,  not  merely  of  its  c 
own,  but  allied  to  universal  types  and  susceptible  of 
logical  analysis.  Its  royal  stamp  will  be  detected  by 
the  expert.  Gainsay  this,  and  you  count  out  a  host 
of  the  elect  brotherhood  who  make  this  the  specific 
test,  —  who  will  forego  other  elements  (as  in  reli- 
gion the  Church  passes  over  minor  matters  if  you 
accept  its  one  essential)  and  concentrate  their  force 
upon  the  dogma  tersely  expressed  by  Poe  when 
he  defined  poetry  as  "the  rhythmical  creation  of 


152  BEAUTY 

beauty."  One  need  not  accept  this  as  a  sufficient 
statement,  but  one  may  assert  that  no  statement  is 
sufficient  which  does  not  pointedly  include  it. 

Confront,  however,  the  fact  that  the  new  aesthetic 
_  ,   .          is  grounded  in  science,  and  see  to  what 

.("Esthetics  as 

the  study  of      ^ls  ieadS-     it  opposes,  for  example,  the 

the  manites-  rr 

artisSc°f  theory  of  those  who  accept  the  exist- 
ence of  a  something  which  we  recognize 
as  beauty,  and  which  as  a  sensible  and  primary 
quality  can  be  denned  only  by  itself,  or  by  a  syn- 
onym, though  its  conditions  are  observable  and 
reasons  can  be  given  for  it.  Expression  is  its 
source  ;  is  not  beauty  itself,  but  that  which  gives 
Eugene  objects  beauty.  Now  V£ron,  a  forcible 

sttfoTof^^r-  expositor  of  the  school  that  has  in  mind 
the  scientific  situation,  declares  that 
beauty  is  solely  in  the  eye  or  mind  of  the  artist, 
and  that  everything  turns  on  the  expression  of  his 
impression.  The  latter  clause  is  true  enough.  The 
beauty  which  the  painter  or  poet  offers  us  cer- 
tainly depends  upon  the  quality  of  his  vision,  upon 
his  ability  to  give  us  something  in  accord  with  gen- 

1  Veron,  in  his  L'£ffAAiffitf,  declares  very  justly  that  the  definition 
of  ^Esthetics  as  the  "  Science  of  the  Beautiful  "  itself  requires  defin- 
ing ;  that  the  beauty  of  Art  does  not  consist  in  imitation,  or  realism, 
or  romanticism,  but  in  effects  determined  by  the  individuality  of  the 
artist ;  and  that  herein  lies  the  true  worth  of  impressionism.  Finally, 
he  accepts,  in  deference  to  usage,  the  "  Science  of  Beauty  in  Art  "  as 
a  convenient  formula,  but  prefers  his  own  statement  that  "Esthetics 
is  the  science  whose  object  is  the  study  and  elucidation  of  the  mani- 
festations of  artistic  genius." 


MODERN  &STHE  TICS  1 5  3 

eral  laws,  yet  deriving  a  special  charm  and  power 
from  the  touch  or  atmosphere  of  his  personal 
genius.  As  each  race  has  its  specific  mode  of 
vision,  so  for  each  there  are  as  many  and  different 
impressions  and  expressions  as  the  race  has  artists  ; 
and  the  general  or  academic  outlines  of  perfection 
being  known,  the  distinctive  value  of  a  poem  or 
painting  does  come  from  its  maker's  habit  of  vision 
and  interpretation. 

But  why,  in  order  to  advance  the  banner  of  im- 
pressionism, or  of   neo-impressionism,  or  Yet  Beamy  is 

no  less  a  force 

of  realism,  good  as  these  may  be,  should  existent. 
we  assume  the  task  of  denying  beauty  altogether  ? 
Beauty  is  confessedly  not  a  substance ;  you  cannot 
weigh  it  with  scales  or  measure  it  with  a  yard-stick : 
but  it  lies  in  a  vibratory  expression  of  substances.  It 
characterizes  that  substance  which  enforces  upon 
intelligence  —  in  our  case,  upon  human  intelligence 

—  a  perception  of  its  fitness.     In  the  mind  of  a  crea- 
tive poet,  it  is  a  quality  of  his  imagined  substance, 

—  poetry  dealing,  as  we  have  seen,  with  "  the  shews 
of  things  "  and  treating  them  as  if  real.    To  the  pure 
idealist  they  are  the  only  realities,  as  Emerson  him- 
self implied  in  his  remark  when  called  away  from 
an  abstract  discussion   in  the   library  to   inspect  a 
farmer's  load  of  wood  :  "  Excuse  me  a  moment,  my 
friends.     We  have  to  attend  to  these  matters  just 
as  if  they  were  real." 

To  be  sure,  from  the  place  where  I  stand,  I  can- 
not  see   the   rays,  the  vibrations,  which  convey  to 


154  BEAUTY 

you  the  aspect  of  something  in  your  line  of  vision  : 
its  vibrations  the  light  and  shape  and  color  which  con- 
actuaiiy  occur,  stjtute  vour  impression  are  your  personal 

sensations.  But  the  vibrations  which  produce  them 
are  actually  occurring,  and  the  quality  of  the  sub- 
stance from  which  they  emanate  is  operative,  — 
unless,  again,  you  choose  to  deny  in  toto  the  exist- 
ence of  matter,  —  and,  after  every  allowance  has 
been  made  for  personal  variation,  if  I  move  to  your 
point  of  view,  they  will,  so  far  as  we  can  know  any- 
thing, produce  approximately  the  same  effect  upon 
my  mind  and  upon  yours.  It  matters  not  through 
and  excite  which  of  the  senses  impressions  are  re- 
percepdon"1  ceived  :  sight,  hearing,  smell,  taste,  touch, 

all  resolve  themselves  at  last  into  spiritual 
feeling.  Form,  for  example,  appeals  to  the  touch  as 
well  as  to  the  eye.  Note  the  blind  Herreshoff,  that 
skilled  designer  of  the  swift,  graceful  hulls  of  yachts 
and  other  cruisers.  As  his  sensitive  fingers  passed 
over,  and  shaped,  and  reshaped  his  model,  he  had 
as  keen  a  sense  of  the  beauty  of  its  lines  as  we 
have  in  seeing  them.  A  poem,  conveyed  by  touch 
to  one  congenitally  deaf,  dumb,  and  blind,  will  im- 
press him  only  with  the  beauty  of  its  thought,  con- 
struction, and  metric  concordance  ;  but  in  one  who 
has  lost  his  sight  and  hearing  in  mature  years,  and 
who  retains  his  memories,  it  will  excite  ideas  of 
Form  and  sound  and  imagery  and  color.  Moral  and 

intellectual  beauty  is  the  spiritual  ana- 
logue of  that  which  is  sensuous  ;  but  just  now  we 


MANIFEST  THROUGH   VIBRATIONS        155 

are  regarding  concrete  qualities ;  for  example,  the 
form,  the  verbal  and  rhythmical  excellence,  of  a 
poet's  poem.  Our  reference  to  arts  that  specially 
appeal  to  the  eye  is  illustrative,  since  they  afford  the 
diagrams,  so  to  speak,  of  most  service  in  this  dis- 
cussion. 

For  the  perception  of  the  beautiful  there  must  be 
a  soul  in  conjunction;  that  statement  is  Beautyisthe 
irrefutable.     Yet  I  think  that  the  quality  ^fngSTn 

r     i  •    L_         •  i  •/•    vibrations. 

of  beauty  exists  in  substances,  even  it 
there  be  no  intelligence  at  hand  to  receive  an  im- 
pression of  it ;  that  if  a  cataract  has  been  falling 
and  thundering  and  prismatically  sparkling  in  the 
heart  of  a  green  forest,  from  time  immemorial,  and 
with  no  human  being  to  wonder  at  it,  it  has  no  less 
the  attribute  of  beauty ;  it  is  waiting,  as  Kepler  said 
of  its  Creator,  "six  thousand  years  for  an  inter- 
preter." Suppose  that  an  exquisite  ode  by  Sappho 
or  Catullus  has  been  buried  for  twenty  centuries  in 
some  urn  or  crypt :  its  beauty  is  there,  and  may 
come  to  light.  Grant  that  our  sense  of  material 
beauty  is  the  impression  caused  by  vibrations  ;  then 
the  quality  regulating  those  vibrations  is  what  I  mean 
by  the  "  beauty  "  of  the  substance  whence  they  ema- 
nate. Grant  what  we  term  the  extension  of  that 
substance  ;  the  characteristics  of  that  extension  are 
what  affect  us.  There  is  no  escape,  you  see,  unless, 
with  Berkeley,  you  say  there  is  no  matter. 

This  is  just  what  the  poet,  the  artist,  is  not  called 
upon  to  do.     He  is  at  the  outset  a  phenomenalist. 


156  BEAUTY 

He  sets  forth  his  apparitions  of  things,  idealizing 
The  oet  them  for  the  delight  of  himself  and  the 
unTverlal to  world.  And  as  to  the  law  of  beauty, 
phenomena.  whether  it  lies  in  use  or  proportion  or 
what  not,  it  all  comes  back  to  the  truths  of  nature,  to 
the  perfection  of  the  universe,  to  that  sense  of  the 
fitness  of  things  which  is  common  to  us  all  in  our 
respective  degrees  ;  so  that  there  are  some  objects 
so  perfect  that  we  all,  if  of  the  same  breed  and  con- 
dition, assent  to  their  beauty.  There  are  women, 
for  example,  who  take  the  world  with  beauty  at  first 
glance,  and  there  are  other  objects  only  partly  beau- 
tiful, less  perfect,  about  which,  therefore,  even  crit- 
ical judgments  are  in  dispute.  That  beauty  does  go 
somewhat  with  use  is  plain  from  its  creation  by 
necessity.  The  vessel  that  is  most  beautiful,  that 
differs  most  from  the  lines  of  a  junk  or  scow,  is  the 
one  best  fitted  safely  and  swiftly  to  ride  the  waves. 
The  condition  is  the  same  with  everything  in  nature 
and  art,  from  a  bird  to  a  portico.  If  the  essence  of 
Beauty  the  beauty  lies  in  conformity  to  the  law  and 
auaiity1  of  aii  fitness  of  things,  then  all  natural  things 
are  as  beautiful  as  they  can  be,  —  that  is, 
beauty  is  their  natural  quality ;  they  develop  it 
unconsciously  as  far  as  possible  under  limitations 
imposed  by  the  pervading  struggle  for  existence. 
That  is  what  leads  Hartmann  to  assert  that  in  Na- 
ture's beauty  "  the  individual,  who  is  at  the  same 
time  marble  and  sculpture,  realizes  the  Idea  per- 
fectly unconsciously ;  in  human  artistic  production, 


ITS  UNIVERSAL  RECOGNITION  1 57 

on  the  other  hand,  the  instigation  of  consciousness 
supervenes." 

The  poet,  through  intuition    and    executive  gift 
realizing  the  normal  beauty  of  everything,  Recognition 

•*  of  it  is 

imaginatively  sets  it  forth.  He  detects  it  intuitive, 
even  within  the  abnormal  gloom  and  deformity  im- 
posed by  chance  and  condition,  helps  it  to  struggle 
to  the  light,  restores  it  —  I  may  say  —  to  conso- 
nance with  the  beauty  of  the  universal  soul.  This 
being  partly  comprehensible  through  empiricism  and 
logical  analysis,  men  of  talent  and  of  little  insight 
produce  tolerable  work  by  means  of  trained  aesthetic 
judgment.  But  no  art,  no  poetry,  is  a  distinctive 
addition  to  the  world's  stores  unless  its  first  concep- 
tion be  intuitive ;  then  only  it  is  a  fresh  expression 
of  the  universal  beauty  through  one  of  its  select 
interpreters.  Like  all  things  else  it  comes  to  us 
from  Jove. 

Even  V6ron  is  compelled  to  assume  the  element 
which  he  denies.  When  he  begins  to  The  schools, 
illustrate  and  to  criticise,  he  instantly  talks  of  "  the 
perfection  of  parts."  The  despotism  of  established 
art  systems  springs  from  this  perfection,  —  the  aca- 
demic sway  of  the  antique  and  of  Raphaelitism. 
Much  of  this  discussion  belongs  to  metaphysical 
aesthetics,  and  some  persons  may  think  these  notions 
antiquated.  We  know  little  of  these  things  abso- 
lutely. We  know  not  the  esoteric  truth  in  matters 
of  art  or  nature,  —  otherwise  the  schools  at  once 
would  cease  their  controversies.  As  it  happens, 


158  BEAUTY 

certain  of  the  latest  physicists  claim  that  "  deduced 
facts  "  —  that  is,  the  objects  inferred  from  our  sen- 
sations —  are  the  true  substantialities  ;  that  only 
our  perception  of  them  is  transient  ;  that  the  world 
of  subjective  feelings  is  the  chimera,  not  the  objec- 
tive matters  which  excite  perception. 

One  question  you  very  properly  may  ask  :  "  Why 

where  not  ta^e  a^  tn^s  ^or  granted,  and  go  on  ? 

danger  lies.  jom  ejther  side,  and  the  result  is  the 
same.  Eclipses  were  calculated  readily  enough  upon 
the  Ptolemaic  method."  Not  so.  The  theory  that 
beauty  is  a  chimera  leads  to  an  arrogant  contempt 
for  it  on  the  part  of  many  artists  and  poets,  who 
substitute  that  which  is  bizarre  and  audacious  for 
that  which  has  enduring  charm.  It  begins  with 
irreverence,  and  leads  to  discordant  taste ;  to  some- 
thing far  beneath  the  excellence  of  noble  literatures 
and  of  great  plastic  and  poetic  eras. 

The  tentative  revolts  that  break  forth  in  art  and 

"The old         letters  are  against  methods  to  which,  how- 
order 
changeth."       ever  fine  they  be  and  grounded  in  nature, 

the  world  has  become  too  servile.  Movements  in 
poetry,  like  those  of  Blake  and  Whitman  and  Lanier 
for  greater  rhythmical  freedom,  of  the  Rossettians 
for  a  study  of  Preraphaelite  methods,  of  Banville 
and  Dobson  for  a  restoration  of  attractive  forms ; 
movements  in  art  like  those  of  Monticelli  and  Claude 
Monet,  —  all  these  are  to  some  extent  the  quest  for 
values  so  long  unwonted  that  they  seem  new ;  and 


OUR  ESTABLISHED  IDEALS  159 

thus  art  returns  upon  its  circuit  and  the  wisdom  of 
the  Preacher  is  reaffirmed.  Still,  every  race  has  its 
culminating  or  concurrent  ideal  of  beauty,  Development 

.......  .  ,  ,  ...  of  racial  and 

which  is  attected,  again,  by  the  conditions  national  ideals. 
of  life  in  the  different  regions  of  the  race's  estab- 
lishment. Each  nation,  like  a  rose-tree,  draws  from 
the  soil  and  air  its  strength,  and  wealth,  and  mate- 
rial sustenance  ;  it  puts  forth  branches,  and  leaves, 
and  sturdy  thorns,  and  battles  with  the  elements 
and  with  the  thicket  that  hems  it  in ;  finally,  with 
all  its  hardier  growth  assured,  it  breaks  into  flower, 
it  develops  an  ideal ;  its  own  and  perfect  rose  of 
beauty  marks  the  culmination,  the  intent,  the  abso- 
lute fulfilment,  of  its  creative  existence.  Thus  the 
ideals  of  Grecian  art  and  song  doubtless  represent 
the  South,  and  those  of  the  Gothic  or  romantic  the 
North,  in  Europe ;  and  the  two  include  the  rarest 
of  our  Aryan  types.  In  art,  these  have  Ultimate 
resulted  in  various  academic  standards  standards- 
the  excellence  of  which  cannot  be  discredited. 
Pater  has  rightly  said  that  it  is  vulgar  to  ignore  the 
"form"  of  the  one,  and  vulgar  to  underrate  the  "sub- 
stance" of  the  other.  The  charm  of  the  Perfection  of 
antique,  for  instance,  is  so  celestial  that,  theanti<Jue- 
supposing  we  had  been  deprived  of  it  hitherto  and 
were  suddenly  to  be  introduced  to  it  through  dis- 
covery of  a  new  continent,  the  children  of  art  would 
go  wild  over  its  perfection.  The  very  artists  who 
now  revolt  from  it  would  in  that  case  break  from 
other  standards  and  lead  a  revolt  in  its  favor,  and  a 


160  BEAUTY 

momentous  progress  in  art  and  song  would  be  re- 
corded. As  it  is,  we  are  intellectually  aware  of  its 
nobility ;  but  anon  our  sense  of  delight  in  it  is 
blunted,  —  we  have  no  zest  in  its  repetition,  being 
to  the  manner  born.  Zest  is  the  sensation  most 
Fashion.  Cp.  worth  possessing.  The  eager  student 
America0":  instinct  is  right  in  essaying  discovery 
and  revival,  since  only  thus  can  zest  be 
sustained,  and,  for  the  sake  of  this,  occasional 
changes  even  to  fashions  of  minor  worth  are  not  to 
be  scouted.  The  element  of  strangeness  itself  con- 
veys a  peculiar  effect  of  beauty.  This,  by  the  way, 
is  the  strength  of  the  Grotesque,  a  subordinate  form 
of  art  and  at  its  best  accessory. 

You  will  observe  that  after  most  revolts  the 
Renaissance,  schools  go  back,  in  time,  to  certain 
ideals,  —  to  those  which  become  academic  because 
the  highest.  They  recover  zest  for  these,  having 
wearied  of  some  passing  fashion  or  revival.  An 
occasional  separation  is  not  a  bad  thing,  after  all,  in 
friendship,  art,  or  marriage.  Thus  it  was  that  the 
classic  Renaissance  of  Italy  reopened  a  world  of 
beauty,  and  began  a  fresh  creative  period,  in  which 
new  styles  of  painting,  moulding,  architecture  arose, 
different  from  the  antique,  but  inspired  by  it,  and 
possible  because  the  spirit  of  beauty  itself  was  re- 
born. 

We  constantly  have  illustrations  of  the  depen- 
dence of  artistic  zest  upon  the  stimulus  of  novelty. 
Some  of  you  possibly  were  brought  up  in  our  old 


HOW  ZEST  IS  SUSTAINED  l6l 

towns  and  in  those  old  houses  where  architecture, 
furniture,  wall-paper,  were  all  "in  keep-  An(?ther i]lus. 
ing."  How  prim  and  monotonous  it  then  'Mjoion&i" 
seemed,  and  how  a  lad  longed  to  get  away  revivaL 
from  it !  Citified  folk  long  since  got  away,  and  with 
zest,  to  something  vastly  inferior, — to  something 
with  no  style  at  all.  At  last  the  Colonial  and  Revo- 
lutionary homestead  styles  became  rare  to  find  in 
their  integrity.  Now  we  see  a  restoration  of  them  ; 
now  we  rediscover  their  lightness  and  fitness, — 
their  beauty,  —  and  are  reviving  them  in  all  depart- 
ments of  taste  ;  until,  in  fact,  as  I  recently  heard  an 
artist  break  forth,  "  there  is  a  great  deal  of  taste,  — 
and  some  of  it  is  good ! "  It  may  be  that  another 
generation  will  tire  of  them,  as  we  did,  though  it 
seems  heresy  to  say  so  now. 

For  a  long  time  after  1775,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 
stood,  in  his  work  and  "  Discourses,"  as  a  Academic  art. 
representative  exponent  of  the  academic.    One  must 
remember  that  he  had  no  light  task  in  promoting 
taste   among   his  Anglo-Saxons ;   their   race  is  not 
endowed  with  the  intuitive  Southern  perception  of 
the   beautiful.     The    English   acquire   their  artistic 
taste   intellectually,   except  in  landscape-gardening, 
although  their  poets  seem  to  be  even   more  noble 
(perhaps  because  more    intellectual)  than  those  of 
nations  whose  sense    of    material  beauty  sir  Joshua 
is  congenital.    Sir  Joshua  was  a  good  deal 
of  a  poet  with   his   brush.     The  chief  of   academi- 


1 62  BEAUTY 

cians,  he  had  a  touch,  a  lovely  feeling,  an  impressive- 
ness  of  his  own.  When  he  sought  a  foundation  for 
his  discourses  upon  art,  he  wisely  went  to  the  best 
ideals  known  to  him.  His  lectures  are  in  the  main 
sound  ;  no  artist,  even  a  recanter,  can  afford  not  to 
read  them  ;  yet  the  attempt  to  carry  them  out  al- 
most confirmed  the  English  School  in  "  correct," 
rigid,  and  lifeless  methods.  And  why  ?  Because 
Sir  Joshua,  an  original  painter  in  his  studio,  in  his 
teachings  did  not  sufficiently  allow  for  and  inculcate 
a  local,  climatic,  racial  divergence  from  his  revered 
Italian  models. 

Now,  the  Indo-European  ideals  of  beauty  usually 
Diverse  ideals    have   been    the  foundation   of    academic 

of  another  . 

people.  theoretics  upon  art,  just  as  they  are  inter- 

wrought,  in  sooth,  with  English  poetry,  and  with 
the  great  criticism  thereon,  —  from  Lamb  and  Cole- 
ridge to  Dryden  and  Arnold  and  Lowell.  But  what 
would  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  have  made  of  the  ex- 
treme antipodal  type,  that  of  those  Asiatic  Greeks, 
—  our  delightful  Japanese  ?  To  be  sure,  there  were 
Indian  and  Chinese  cults,  but  these  were  merely 
capricious  and  accessory,  and  not  pursued  to  any 
just  appreciation  of  their  ideals.  Here,  then,  in 
The  Japanese.  Japan  is  a  race  developed  under  distinc- 
tive biological  conditions,  with  types  of  art  and  life 
almost  the  reverse  of  our  own,  yet  perfectly  con- 
sistent throughout,  and  —  as  we  now  see — superior 
to  those  of  Western  civilization  in  more  than  one 
department.  Its  ideals  are  just  as  perfect  as  those 


THE  ANTIPODAL    TYPE  163 

of  the  Greeks  or  Goths,  yet  absolutely  different. 
Here  we  indeed  enter  a  new  world.  Ideal  beauty 
plainly  lies  in  adaptation  of  the  spirit  to  Fitness, 

material  and 

the  circumstances,  though  not  always  to  spiritual, 
the  apparent  material  exigencies.  La  Farge,  whom 
I  have  before  quoted,  —  and  upon  the  subject  of 
beauty  the  sayings  of  a  painter  or  an  architect 
(mutatis  mutandis]  apply  just  as  fully  to  poetry  as 
to  his  own  art,  —  La  Farge  says,  in  speaking  of 
the  adaptation  of  Japanese  buildings  to  resistance 
against  earthquakes,  that 

"  like  all  true  art,  the  archi- 
tecture of  Japan  has  found  in  the  necessities  imposed  upon 
it  the  motives  for  realizing  beauty,  and  has  adorned  the 
means  by  which  it  has  conquered  the  difficulties  to  be  sur- 
mounted." 

No  better  illustration  could  be  given  of  the  rela- 
tions of  fitness  and  beauty ;  but  he  soon  has  occa- 
sion to  add :  — 

"Everywhere  the  higher  architecture,  embodied  in 
shrines  and  temples,  is  based  on  some  ideal  needs,  and 
not  essentially  upon  necessities." 

We  see,  then,  every  people  recognizing  an  extra- 
mundane  conception  of  beauty,  founded  in  the  spirit 
of  man,  and  this  again  conforms  itself  to  the  spirit 
of  each  race.  Through  it  the  poets  become  creative 
rather  than  adaptive,  —  the  beauty  of  their  imagin- 
ings coming  from  within,  just  as  the  beauty  of 
nature  is  the  efflux  of  the  universal  spirit.  So  far 


1 64  BEAUTY 

as  human  artists  share  the  Divinity  of  that  spirit, 
their  interpretations  give  it  form  to  human  eyes, 
melody  to  human  ears,  and  imagery  and  feeling 
therewithal  to  move  the  recipient.  It  seems,  then, 
I  say,  the  lot  of  each  nation,  as  if  an  individual,  and 
specific  °f  eacn  period,  as  if  a  modish  season,  to 

evolution.  discover  the  beauty  conformed  both  to 
general  laws  and  to  specific  needs  and  impulse ;  to 
create,  moreover,  its  proper  forms  in  every  art,  thus 
making  new  contributions  to  the  world's  thesaurus 
of  poetry  and  design.  This  is  acknowledged  by  all, 
as  concerns  the  every-day  art  of  dress.  A  Japanese 
gentleman  is  dignified  in  his  national  costume ;  his 
wife  and  daughters  are  charming  in  their  clinging 
and  curving  robes.  Attire  them  —  and  that  is  the 
shameful  thing  which  our  invasion  is  effecting  —  in 
the  dapper  broadcloth,  the  Parisian  gown,  and  their 
comeliness  often  is  gone.  A  pitiful  incongruity  is 
apt  to  take  its  place.  I  believe  that  such  a  race  as 
theirs  also  develops  its  fine  arts,  manners,  govern- 
ment, literature,  —  yes,  even  religion,  —  to  its  foreor- 
dained capacity ;  that  if  you  force  or  coax  it  to  adopt 
the  modes  of  a  divergent  people,  you  sound  the 
death-knell  of  its  fair  individuality.  If  the  tempter 
race  is  the  superior,  the  one  that  surrenders  its 
own  ideals  is  doomed  to  be  absorbed,  —  at  least,  to 
lose  its  national  distinction.  Possibly  with  the  pro- 
,  ,.  gressive  modern  intercourse  of  peoples  a 

What  distant 

goal?  general  blending  is  to  result.    Languages, 

arts,  races,  may  react  upon  one  another  and  produce 


DIVERGENT  RACIAL  STANDARDS         165 

a  cosmic  mongrelism.  If  this  is  according  to  the 
law  of  progress,  something  grand  will  come  out  of 
it,  a  planetary  and  imposing  style.  But  during  cen- 
turies of  transition  the  gradual  loss  of  national  indi- 
vidualities will  seem  pathetic  indeed.  Something  of 
this  passed  through  my  mind  as  I  watched,  half  sor- 
rowful and  half  amused,  an  accomplished  Japanese 
lady,  the  adopted  daughter  of  an  American,  yielding 
to  the  influence  of  our  Western  ideals.  A  natural 
artist,  like  so  many  of  her  blood,  she  is  impressible 
by  beauty  of  a  novel  type.  As  far  as  per-  ^he  assimiia- 
sonal  experience  is  concerned,  she  doubt-  tlve  process- 
less  adds  to  the  worth  of  her  own  life  by  assimilat- 
ing the  results  of  an  art  no  more  perfect  in  its  kind 
than  the  decorative — and  therefore  secondary  —  art 
of  her  own  race,  yet  one  far  beyond  the  power  of 
her  race  to  originate,  or  to  pursue  in  competition 
with  its  originators.  Therefore  it  seemed  almost  a 
pity  to  find  her  at  work  upon  a  lesson  from  the  Art 
Students'  League,  copying  in  crayon  an  antique 
Apollo,  with  deft  fingers,  which  to  my  thinking 
should  be  tracing  designs  in  lacquer  or  in  cloisonne 
on  bronze,  or  painting  some  group  of  Japanese  men 
and  maidens,  in  their  flexible  costume,  by  the  bay- 
side,  on  a  terrace,  with  herons  stalking  among  sacred 
lilies  in  the  near  distance,  and  the  eternal  peak  of 
Fujiyama  meeting  the  blue  sky  beyond. 

Meanwhile  our  present  standard  of  beauty  is  the 
European,  with  modifications.  To  comprehend  any 
other  you  must  enter  into  its  spirit  by  adoption,  by 


1 66  BEAUTY 

a  certain  naturalization ;  until  then  you  will  find  it 
Taste  is  con-  as  hard  to  master  as  the  idioms  of  a  lan- 
cStllaJe.  guage  not  your  own.  These  seem  grotesque 
and  childish  until  you  speak,  even  think,  in  their 
tongue  without  mentally  translating  it.  A  transla- 
tion will  give  you  the  imagination,  action,  thought, 
of  a  poem,  for  instance,  but  not  its  native  and  essen- 
tial beauty.  Esthetics  relate  to  the  primal  sense, 
and  must  be  taken  at  first  hand.  This  is  all  the 
truth  there  is  in  the  maxim  De  gustibus.  If  the 
rays  of  our  sun  were  as  green  as  those  of  the  star 
/3  Librae,  beauty  would  exist  and  have  its  standard 
in  conformity.  Taste  would  be  as  intuitive  as  now, 
and  just  as  open  to  cultivation. 

These  general  principles  should  entitle  us  to  our 
Poetic  beauty,  surmise  respecting  the  ultimate  value  of 
a  poem.  A  mode  attractive  for  its  novelty  may  be 
only  the  vogue  of  a  generation,  or  of  a  brief  season. 
I  take  endurance  to  be  the  test  of  art.  History  will 
show,  I  think,  that  if  a  poem  had  not  the  element  of 
beauty,  this  potency  in  art,  its  force  could  not  en- 
dure. Beauty  partakes  of  eternal  youth  and  conveys 
its  own  immortality.  Passion  and  imagination  in- 
tensify much  of  the  poetry  that  has  survived;  but 
under  their  stress  the  poet  summons  beauty  to  his 
aid.  Wisdom  and  morals  do  not  so  inevitably  take 
„  .  on  grace  :  their  statements,  impressive  at 

Its  conserving 

power.  tne    timC)    must    be    recast    perpetually. 

The  law  of  natural  selection  conserves  artistic  beauty 


ENDURANCE   THE   TEST  OF  ART         167 

in  the  poem  as  in  the  bird  and  butterfly.  Besides, 
just  as  gems  and  gold  are  hoarded  while  iron  is  left 
to  rust,  and  as  paintings  that  are  beautiful  in  line 
and  color  grow  costlier  with  time,  so  the  poetry  that 
has  the  beauty  of  true  art  becomes  the  heirloom  of 
generations.  For  beauty  seems  to  consecrate  both 
makers  and  possessors.  Just  as  all  the  world  clings 
to  the  legends  of  Helen  and  Cleopatra  and  Mary 
Stuart,  so  it  has  a  fondness  for  the  Cellinis  and  Vil- 
lons  and  Marlowes  and  Lovelaces, —  the  ne'er-do- 
weels  of  art  and  song.  This  is  because  it  reads  the 
artist's  higher  self  in  his  work;  there  alone  it  is 
expressed,  and  we  give  him  credit  for  it.  The  truth 
of  fairy  tales  is  that  of  beauty ;  the  Florizels  and 
Cinderellas  and  Percinets  are  its  ideals.  Beauty 
loves  the  Beast,  but  the  Beast  is  beauty  in  Art  {or  art,s 
disguise.  Thus  creative  taste  holds  the  sake' 
key  to  the  future,  and  art  for  art's  sake  is  a  sound 
motto  in  so  far  as  beauty  is  a  legitimate  end  of  art. 
That  it  is  not  the  sole  end  of  art -life  is  the  lesson  of 
Tennyson's  "  The  Palace  of  Art."  One  who  thought 
otherwise  at  last  found  need  to  throw  her  royal  robes 
away : 

"  Make  me  a  cottage  in  the  vale,"  she  said, 
"  Where  I  may  mourn  and  pray. 

"  Yet  pull  not  down  my  palace  towers,  that  are 

So  lightly,  beautifully  built  : 
Perchance  I  may  return  with  others  there 
When  I  have  purged  my  guilt." 

All  in  all,  if  concrete  beauty  is  not  the  greatest 


1 68  BEAUTY 

thing  in  poetry,  it  is  the  one  thing  indispensable, 
and  therefore  we  give  it  earliest  consideration.  Be- 
sides, it  so  depends  on  the  elements  of  emotion  and 
truth  that  when  these  are  not  expressed  in  a  poem 
you  may  suspect  the  beauty  to  be  defective  and  your 
sense  of  it  mistaken.  It  may  be  said  to  symbolize 
truth  in  pure  form. 

The  young  poet,  as  instinctively  as  a  plant  seeks 
The  poet's  t^ie  ^g^t,  feels  that  he  must  worship  and 
express  the  beautiful.  His  passion  for  it, 
both  in  his  life  and  in  his  art,  is  his  greatest  strength 
and  danger.  It  is  that  which  must  distinguish  him 
from  other  men  ;  for  many  will  have  more  wisdom, 
more  virtue,  than  himself,  while  only  he  who  can 
inform  these  with  beauty  by  that  token  is  the  poet. 
In  the  early  poems  of  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Goethe, 
Tennyson,  Rossetti,  thought  is  wreaked  "upon  ex- 
pression." Even  the  lyrists  whose  development 
stops  at  this  point,  such  as  Herrick,  the  cavalier 
singers,  the  Provencal  minstrels,  have  no  obscure 
stations  in  the  hemicycle  of  song. 

Why  is  it  that  all  the  relics  of   Grecian  poetry 
survival  of  the  have  such  beauty  ?     Were  there  no  dul- 

fittest  and  most    ,  .  •  /•    • 

beautiful.  lards,  was  there  no  inartistic  versifying, 
even  in  Athens  ?  It  is  my  belief  that  for  every  poet 
whose  works  have  reached  us  a  score  passed  into 
obscurity,  and  their  writings  were  lost ;  furthermore, 
that,  in  spite  of  the  burning  of  the  Alexandrian 
library,  comparatively  little  has  been  lost  since  the 


"BUILDED  FAR  FROM  ACCIDENT"         169 

time  of  Herodotus  that  was  worth  saving.  Only 
the  masterpieces,  large  and  small,  were  copied  and 
recopied,  and  treasured  in  men's  hearts  and  homes. 
And  those  were.  The  ugly  statues,  also,  went  to 
ruin.  It  is  the  Venus  of  the  Louvre  that  is  piously 
buried  when  danger  threatens,  whether  in  Melos  or 
by  the  Seine ;  and  it  is  she  who  always  rises  again 
and  comes  to  light.  Doubtless  we  have  the  most 
beautiful  dramas  of  even  vEschylus  and  Sophocles, 
and  some  of  the  choicest  verse  of  even  yEolian  and 
Dorian  lyrists.  Belief  in  this  is  not  shaken  by  the 
recovery  of  classical  fragments  through  our  archaeo- 
logical explorations  ;  for,  if  something  fresh  and  fair 
—  a  portion  of  the  Antiope,  for  instance  —  is  occa- 
sionally gained,  it  is  surprising  how  many  passages 
from  works  already  in  our  hands  are  quoted  in  the 
writings  upon  new-found  tablets  and  papyri.  Time 
and  fate  could  not  destroy  the  blooms  of  the  antho- 
logy, the  loveliest  Syracusan  idyls,  the  odes  of  Ca- 
tullus and  Horace.  By  chance  something  less  attrac- 
tive has  remained  :  we  keep  Ausonius  and  Quintus 
on  the  archaic  shelves,  but  they  have  no  life ;  they 
are  not  cherished  and  quoted,  they  cannot  be  said 
to  endure. 

All  service  is  in  a  sense  acceptable,  and  hence  the 
claim  that  the  intent,  rather  than  the  out-  Motive  and 

.  accomplish- 

come,  crowns  the  work.     Thus  Browning  ment. 
in  his  paper  on  Shelley  and  in  certain  poems  shows 
himself  to  be  a  pure  idealist  in  his  estimate  of  art. 
Professor  A.  H.  Smyth  explains  that  the  object  of 


1 70  BE  A  UTY 

Browning's  "  Old  Pictures  in  Florence  "  is  "  to  show 
that  Greek  art  in  all  its  matchless  perfection  is  no 
more  admirable  than  dim  and  almost  undecipherable 
ruins  of  efforts  merely  monastic,  on  smoke-stained 
walls  of  Christian  churches."  But  to  me  the  latter 
suggest  merely  faith  and  aspiration,  without  that 
perfected  beauty  which  adds  the  grandeur  of  attain- 
ment and  completes  the  trinity  of  art. 

The  poetry  of  our  own  tongue  is  sufficient  to  test 
Beauty  of  our  the  law  of  durability.  Its  youth,  as  if  that 
poegtr^.  of  a  poet,  was  pledged  to  the  mastery  of 

the  beautiful  as  soon  as  it  grew  out  of  half-barbaric 
minstrelsy  and  displayed  a  conscious  intent.  Chau- 
cer is  a  poet  of  the  beautiful ;  always  original  in  his 
genius,  and  sometimes  in  his  invention,  he  for  the 
most  part  simply  tells  old  tales  with  a  new  and 
English  beauty.  Five  hundred  years  later  his  pupil, 
Morris,  renews  the  process.  Spenser's  rare  and  ex- 
haustless  art  makes  him  a  poet  for  poets.  Passing 
by  Shakespeare  as  we  would  pass  by  nature,  what 
we  cull  again  and  again  from  the  Elizabethan  garden 
are  those  passages  in  the  dramatists,  beautiful  for 
rhythm  and  diction,  which  furnish  examples  for  the 
criticism  of  Coleridge  and  Lamb.  From  the  skylark 
melodies  and  madrigals  of  that  English  Arcady  those 
which  are  most  beautiful  are  ever  chosen  first  by  the 
anthologists.  We  never  tire  of  them  :  they  seem 
Things  "to  more  perfect  and  welcome  with  each  re- 

full  perfection 

brought.-  move.  Too  few  read  Ben  Jonson  s  plays  ; 
who  does  not  know  "  To  Celia,"  "  The  Triumph  of 


"DO   THY  WORST,  OLD   TIME'"  I /I 

Charis,"  and  "Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes"? 
The  song,  "Take,  O  take  those  lips  away,"  even 
were  it  not  embalmed  by  Shakespeare,  would  outlast 
the  dramas  of  John  Fletcher.  Suckling's  "  Why  so 
pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  ? "  and  his  verses  on  a  wed- 
ding;  Lovelace's  "To  Lucasta"  and  "'To  Althaea, 
from  Prison,"  —  such  are  the  gems  in  whose  light 
the  shades  of  courtier-poets  remain  apparent.  More 
of  Herrick's  endure,  because  with  him  beauty  of 
sound  and  shape  and  fancy  was  always  first  in  heart, 
and  always  fresh  and  natural.  I  have  written  a 
paper  on  Single-Poem  Poets,  but  the  greater  number 
of  them  were  no  less  the  authors  of  a  mass  of  long- 
forgotten  verse.  Of  Waller's  poetry  we  remember 
little  beyond  the  dainty  lyrics,  "  Go,  lovely  rose  " 
and  "  On  a  Lady's  Girdle."  '  From  time  to  time  the 
saddest  and  gladdest  and  sweetest  chansons  of  Vil- 
lon and  Ronsard  and  Du  Bellay  are  retranslated  by 
deft  English  minstrels,  as  men  take  out  precious 
things  from  cabinets  and  burnish  them  anew.  A 
ponderous  epic  disappears ;  some  little  song,  once 
carolled  by  Mary  Stuart,  or  a  perfect  conceit  of  im- 
agery and  feeling,  whose  very  author  is  unknown, 
becomes  imperishable.  For  instance, 

THE   WHITE   ROSE. 
Sent  by  a  Yorkish  Lover  to  his  Lancastrian  Mistress. 

"  If  this  fair  rose  offend  thy  sight, 
Placed  in  thy  bosom  bare, 


1/2  BEAUTY 

'T  will  blush  to  find  itself  less  white, 
And  turn  Lancastrian  there. 

"  But  if  thy  ruby  lip  it  spy, 
As  kiss  it  thou  mayest  deign, 
With  envy  pale  't  will  lose  its  dye, 
And  Yorkish  turn  again." 

The  few  lyrics  I  have  named  are  among  the  most 
familiar  that  occur  to  you  and  me ;  but  what  has 
made  them  so  if  it  be  not  their  exceeding  loveli- 
ness ? 
We  have  but  one  poet  of  the  first  order,  but  one 

From  shake-     strong  pier  of  the  bridge,  between  Shake- 
speare tO  •»«••!• 

Wordsworth,  speare  and  our  own  century.  Milton  in 
his  early  verse,  which  has  given  lessons  to  Keats 
and  Tennyson,  displays  the  extreme  sense  and  ex- 
pression of  poetic  beauty.  Dryden  and  Pope  have 
values  of  their  own ;  but  from  Pope  to  Burns,  only 
Goldsmith,  for  his  charms  of  simplicity  and  feeling, 
and  Collins  and  Gray,  who  achieved  a  certain  perfec- 
tion even  in  conventional  forms,  are  still  endeared 
to  us.  Examine  the  imposing  mass  of  Wordsworth's 
poetry.  With  few  .exceptions  the  imaginative  and 
elevated  passages,  the  most  tender  lyrics,  have  a 
peculiar  beauty  of  rhythm  and  language,  —  have 
sound,  color,  and  artistic  grace.  Take  these,  and 
nearly  all  are  chosen  for  Arnold's  "  Selection  "  and  ' 
Palgrave's  "  Golden  Treasury,"  and  you  possibly 
have  the  most  of  Wordsworth  that  will  be  read  here- 
after. 

A  revival  of  love  for  the  beautiful  culminated  in 


THE  NEW  CASTALIA  1/3 

the  modern  art  school.  Naturalness  had  come  back 
with  Burns,  Cowper,  and  Wordsworth ;  in-  Modern 
tensity  and  freedom  with  Byron  ;  then  *stheticis«- 
the  absolute  poetic  movement  of  Coleridge,  Shel- 
ley, Keats,  and  of  that  aesthetic  propagandist,  Leigh 
Hunt,  began  its  prolonged  influence.  Poetry  is 
again  an  art,  constructed  and  bedecked  with  pre- 
cision. So  potent  the  charm  of  this  restoration, 
that  it  has  outrun  all  else :  there  is  a  multitude  of 
minor  artists,  each  of  whom,  if  he  cannot  read  the 
heart  of  Poesy,  casts  his  little  flower  beside  her  as 
she  sleeps.  Who  can  tell  but  some  of  "  L'an  robuste 
these  blossoms  may  be  selected  by  Fame  nw.» 
and  Time,  that  wait  upon  her  ?  Ars  Victrix  wears 
her  little  trophies  as  proudly  as  her  great.  Dob- 
son's  paraphrase  on  Gautier  became  at  once  a  pro- 
verb, from  instant  recognition  of  its  truth  :  — 

"  All  passes.     Art  alone 
Enduring  stays  to  us ; 
The  Bust  outlasts  the  throne, — 
The  Coin,  Tiberius; 

Even  the  gods  must  go ; 

Only  the  lofty  Rhyme 
Not  countless  years  o'erthrow,  — 

Not  long  array  of  time." 

In  this  one  lecture,  you  see,  I  dwell  upon  the 
technical  features  that  lend  enchantment  Elements  of 

concrete  poetic 

to  poetry  in   the  concrete.     How,  then,  beauty. 
does  the  beauty  of  a  poem  avail?     Primitively,  as 


174  BEAUTY 

addressed  to  the  ear  in  sound  ;  that  was  its  normal 

Melody,  as       method  of  conveying  its  imagery  and  pas- 
heard  or 
symbolized.       sion   to   the  human   mind,   and  we  have 

already  considered  the  strange  spell  of  its  vocal 
music.  But  with  the  birth  of  written  literature  it 
equally  addressed  the  eye,  and  since  the  invention 
of  printing,  a  thousand  times  more  frequently ;  so 
that  the  epigram  is  not  strained  which  declares  that 
"  It  is  read  with  the  ear ;  it  is  written  with  the 
voice ;  it  is  heard  with  the  eyes."  The  mind's  ear 
conceives  the  beauty  of  those  seen  but  "  unheard 
melodies  "  which  are  "  the  sweetest."  The  look  of 
certain  words  conveys  certain  ideas  to  the  mind ; 
they  seem  as  entities  to  display  the  absolute  color, 
form,  expression,  associated  with  their  meanings, 
just  as  their  seen  rhythm  and  melody  sound  them- 
constructive  selves  to  the  ear.  The  eye,  moreover, 
finds  the  architecture  of  verse  effective, 
realizing  a  monumental,  inscriptionary  beauty  in 
stanzaic  and  ode  forms.  Shape,  arrangement,  pro- 
portion compose  the  synthetic  beauty  of  Construc- 
tion. Thus  poetry  has  its  architecture  and  shares 
that  condition  celebrated  by  Beatrice  in  the  "  Para- 
diso  "  :  "All  things  collectively  have  an  order  among 
themselves,  and  this  is  form,  which  makes  the  uni- 
verse resemble  God."  *  Beauty  of  construction  is 
still  more  potent  in  the  effect  of  plot  and  arrange- 
ment. Simplicity,  above  all,  characterizes  alike  the 

1  Thus  cited  by  Dr.  W.  T.  Harris  in  The  Spiritual  Sense  of  Dante's 
Divina  Commedia. 


MELOD Y—  CONSTRUCTION—  SIMPLICITY    1 75 

noblest  and  the  loveliest  poems,  —  simplicity  of  art 
and  of  feeling.  There  are  no  better  ex-  simplicity, 
amples  of  this,  as  to  motive  and  construction,  than 
those  two  episodes  of  Ruth  and  Esther.  Written  in 
the  poetic  Hebrew,  though  not  in  verse,  ExampleS)and 
they  fulfil  every  requisition  of  the  prose  aco"trast- 
idyl :  the  one  a  pure  pastoral,  the  other  a  civic  and 
royal  idyl  of  the  court  of  a  mighty  king.  There  is 
not  a  phrase,  an  image,  an  incident,  too  much  or  too 
little  in  either ;  not  a  false  note  of  atmosphere  or 
feeling.  These  works,  so  naively  exquisite,  are 
deathless.  Their  charm  is  even  greater  as  time 
goes  on.  Now,  a  remarkable  novel  has  been  written 
in  our  own  day,  "Anna  Kare"nina,"  which  chances 
to  be  composed  of  two  idyls, —  one  distinctly  of  the 
city  and  the  court,  the  other  of  the  country  and  the 
harvest-field.  These  two  cross  and  interweave,  and 
blend  and  separate,  until  the  climacteric  tragedy  and 
lesson  of  the  book.  Powerful  as  this  work  is,  it  has 
little  chance  of  great  endurance,  inasmuch  as  its 
structure  and  detail  are  complex  even  for  this  com- 
plex period.  It  is  at  the  opposite  extreme  from  the 
simplicity  of  those  matchless  idyls  of  the  Old  Tes- 
tament. 

Nevertheless,  that  idyllic  perfection  came  from  a 
really  advanced  art.     However  spontane-  Nature  of 

the  antique 

ous  of   impulse,   it  was  not  perpetuated  simplicity, 
through  the  uncertain  process  of  oral  transmission, 
but  by  a  polished  scriptural  text.     Absolutely  primi- 
tive song  was  often  a  rhapsody,  and  not  suited  to 


176  BEAUTY 

textual  embodiment.  When  finally  gathered  up  from 
traditions,  it  owed  as  much  to  the  compiler  as  a  rude 
folk-melody  owes  to  a  composer  who  makes  it  a 
theme  for  his  sustained  work.  The  judge  of  such 
poetry,  then,  must  consider  it  as  both  an  art  and  an 
impulse,  and  even  as  addressed  to  both  the  eye  and 
the  ear.  And  while  it  is  true  that  the  simplicity  of 
the  ancients,  of  purely  objective  art,  is  of  the  great- 
est worth,  we  must  remember  that  the  works  in 
question  were  the  product  of  an  age  of  few  "values," 
Ourcompen-  — as  a  painter  would  say.  In  our  passage 

sation  for  its 

loss.  from  the  homogeneous  to  the  complex, 

the  loss  in  simplicity  is  made  up  by  the  gain  in  vari- 
ety and  richness.  We  return  to  simplicity,  ever  and 
anon,  for  repose,  and  for  a  new  initiative,  as  a  sonata 
returns  to  its  theme.  Refreshed,  we  advance  again, 
to  still  richer  and  more  complex  inventions.  In 
place  of  the  few  Homeric  colors  we  have  captured  a 
hundred  intermediate  shades  of  the  spectrum,  and 
we  possess  a  thousand  words  to  recall  these  to  the 
imagination.  The  same  progression  affects  all  the 
arts.  What  modern  painter  would  be  content  with 
the  few  Pompeian  tints  ;  what  musician  with  the 
five  sounds  of  the  classic  pentachord  ? 

Artistic  simplicity,  then,  must  be  attained  through 
The  natural  naturalness ;  and  from  that  grace  of  graces 
modern  complexity  of  material  and  emo- 
tion cannot  debar  us.  If  a  poet,  imitating  antique 
or  foreign  methods,  confines  himself  baldly  to  a  few 
"  values,"  he  may  incur  the  charge  of  artifice ;  and 


DECORATION  177 


artificiality  is  the  antithesis  of  naturalness.  You 
may  exhibit  an  apparent  simplicity  of  style  and  dic- 
tion,—  which  Mrs.  Browning,  for  instance,  failed 
of  altogether,  —  and  ^et  have  no  sincere  motive  and 
impulse,  in  respect  of  which  her  lyrics  and  sonnets 
were  beyond  demur. 

In    poetry  true   beauty  of  detail  is  next  to  that 
of  construction,  but  non-creative  writers  T 

Beauty  of 

lavish  all  their  ingenuity  upon  decoration  detaU- 
until  it  becomes  a  vice.     You  cannot  long  disguise 
a  lack  of  native  vigor  by  ornament  and  novel  effects. 
Over-decoration  of  late  is  the  symptom  of  over-pro- 
longed devotion  to  the  technical  sides  of  both  poetry 
and    art.     Sound,    color,    word-painting,   over-ekbora- 
verse-carving,    imagery,  —  all    these    are  ''°victomn 

,.  ...  Poets": 

rightly  subordinate  to  the   passion  of   a  p.  289. 
poem,  and  must  not  usurp  its   place.     Landscape, 
moreover,  at  its  best,  is  but  a  background  to  life  and 
action.     In  fine,  construction  must  be  decorated,  but 
decoration  is  not  the  main  object  of  a  building  or  a 
poem.     "The  Eve  of   St.  Agnes"  is   perhaps   our 
finest    English    example   of    the   extreme   point   to 
which  effects  of  detail  can  be  carried  in  a  romantic 
poem.    The  faultless  construction  warrants  it.    Some 
of   Tennyson's   early  pieces,  such  as   the  classico- 
romantic  "CEnone"  and  "The  Lotos-Eaters,"  stand 
next  in  modern  verse.     But  I  forego  a  disquisition 
upon  technique.     All  of  its  countless  ef-  One  thing 
fects  are  nothing  without  that  psychical  needful- 
beauty  imparted  by  the  true  poetic  vitality,  —  are  of 


1/8  BEAUTY 

less  value  than  faith  and  works  without  love.  The 
vox  humana  must  be  heard.  That  alone  can  give 
quality  to  a  poem ;  the  most  refined  and  artistic 
verse  is  cold  and  forceless  without  it.  A  soulless 
poem  is  a  stained-glass  window  with  the  light  shin- 
ing on  and  not  through  it. 

Since  a  high  emotion  cannot  be  sustained  too 
Mill's  canon  ^onS  without  changing  from  a  rapture  to  a 
sustehfedby  Pang>  many  have  declared  that  the  phrase 
"a  long  poem  "  is  a  misnomer.  Undoubt- 
edly, concentration-  of  feeling  must  be  followed  by 
depression  or  repose.  The  fire  that  burns  fiercely 
soon  does  its  work.  Yet  he  who  conceives  and 
makes  a  grand  tragedy  or  epic  so  relieves  his  work 
with  interludes  and  routine  that  the  reader  moves  as 
from  wave  to  wave  across  a  great  water.  It  may  be, 
as  alleged,  a  succession  of  short  poems,  but  these 
are  interwrought  as  by  one  of  nature's  processes  for 
the  building  of  a  master-work.  However,  let  me 
select  the  beauty  of  a  short  and  lyric  poem,  as  the 
kind  about  which  there  is  no  dispute,  for  the  only 
type  which  I  can  here  consider. 

Lyrical  beauty  does  not  necessarily  depend  upon 
Lyncai  tne  obvious  repetends  and  singing-bars  of 

a  song  or  regular  lyric.  The  purest  lyrics 
are  not  of  course  songs ;  the  stanzaic  effect,  the  use 
of  open  vowel  sounds,  and  other  matters  instinctive 
with  song -makers,  need  not  characterize  them. 
What  they  must  have  is  quality.  That  their  rhyth- 
mic and  verbal  expression  appeals  supremely  to  the 


OF  THE  PURE  LYRIC  179 

finest  sensibilities  indicates,  first,  that  the  music  of 
speech  is  more  advanced,  because  more  subtly  vary- 
ing, than  that  of  song ;  or,  secondly,  that  a  more 
advanced  music,  such  as  the  German  and  French 
melodists  now  wed  to  words,  is  required  for  the 
interpretation  of  the  most  poetic  and  qualitative 
lyric.  A  profound  philosophy  of  sound  and  speech 
is  here  involved,  —  not  yet  fully  understood,  and  into 
which  we  need  not  enter. 

But  you  know  that  rare  poetic  types,  whether  of 
the  chiselled  classic  verse,  or  of  the  song  itssubtile 
and  lyric,  have  a  grace  that  is  intangible.  »"B|* 
There  is  a  rare  bit  of  nature  in  "The  Reapers"  of 
Theocritus.  Battus  compares  the  feet  of  his  mis- 
tress to  carven  ivory,  her  voice  is  drowsy  sweet, 
"but  her  air,"  —  he  says,  —  "I  cannot  express  it !" 
And  thus  the  gems  of  Greek  and  Latin  verse,  the 
cameos  of  Landor  and  Hunt  and  Gautier,  the  Eng- 
lish songs  from  Shakespeare  to  Procter  and  Tenny- 
son and  Stoddard,  the  love-songs  of  Goethe  and  his 
successors,  the  ethereal  witching  lyrics  of  Shelley 
and  Swinburne  and  Robert  Bridges,  —  all  these  have 
one  impalpable  attribute,  light  as  thistle-down,  po- 
tent as  the  breath  of  a  spirit,  a  divine  gift  unat- 
tainable by  will  or  study,  and  this  is,  in  one  word, 
Charm.  Charis,  Grace  herself,  bestows  charm. 
it,  blending  perfect  though  inexplicable  beauty  of 
thought  with  perfect  though  often  suggested  beauty 
of  feeling.  To  these  her  airy  sprites  minister  with 
melody  and  fragrance,  with  unexpectedness  and 


l8o  BEAUTY 

sweet  surprises,  freedom  in  and  out  of  law,  naivete", 
aristocratic  poise,  lightness,  pathos,  rapture,  —  all 
gifts  that  serve  to  consecrate  the  magic  touch. 
However  skilled  the  singer,  quality  and  charm  are 
inborn.  Something  of  them,  therefore,  always  graces 
the  folk-songs  of  a  peasantry,  the  ballads  and  songs, 
let  us  say,  of  Ireland  and  Scotland.  Theirs  is  the 
wilding  flavor  which  Lowell  detects  :  — 

"  Sometimes  it  is 

A  leafless  wilding  shivering  by  the  wall ; 
But  I  have  known  when  winter  barberries 
Pricked  the  effeminate  palate  with  surprise 
Of  savor  whose  mere  harshness  seemed  divine." 

When  to  this  the  artist -touch  is  added,  then  the 
The  pure  wandering,  uncapturable  movement  of  the 
5tarchcomp!>?  Pure  lyic  —  more  beautiful  for  its  breaks 
and  studied  accidentals  and  most  effec- 
tive discords  —  is  ravishing  indeed  :  at  last  you 
have  the  poet's  poetry  that  is  supernal.  Its  per- 
vading quintessence  is  like  the  sheen  of  flame 
upon  a  glaze  in  earth  or  metal.  Form,  color,  sound, 
unite  and  in  some  mysterious  way  become  lambent 
with  delicate  or  impassioned  meaning.  Here  beauty 
is  most  intense.  Charm  is  the  expression  of  its 
expression,  the  measureless  under  -  vibration,  the 
thrill  within  the  thrill.  We  catch  from  its  sugges- 
tion the  very  impulse  of  the  lyrist ;  we  are  given  the 
human  tone,  the  light  of  the  eye,  the  play  of  feature, 
—  all,  in  fine,  which  shows  the  poet  in  the  poem  and 
makes  it  his  and  not  another's. 


CHARM  l8l 

Just  as  this  elusive  beauty  prevails,  the  song,  or 
lyric,  will  endure.  Art  is  in  truth  the  Art's 

•  beauteous 

victress  when  she  fulfils  Ruskin's  demand  paradox, 
and  is  able  "to  stay  what  is  fleeting,  and  to  en- 
lighten what  is  incomprehensible ;  to  incorporate 
the  things  that  have  no  measure,  and  immortalize 
the  things  that  have  no  duration."  And  yet,  recog- 
nizing her  subtle  paradoxy,  and  if  asked  to  name 
one  suggested  feeling  which  more  than  others 
seems  allied  with  Charm  and  likely  to  perpetuate  its 
expression  (for  I  can  name  only  one  to-day),  I  select 
that  which  dwells  not  upon  continuance,  but  upon  — 
our  perishableness.  Think  of  it,  and  you  Most  fair 

..,  ,  i      ,    T~.  •  r    •!•  because  most 

will  see  that  Evanescence  is  an  unfailing  fleeting. 
source  of  charm.  Something  exquisite  attaches  to 
our  sense  of  it.  The  appeal  which  a  delicate  and 
fragile  thing  of  beauty  makes  to  us  depends  as  much 
upon  its  peril  as  upon  its  rarity.  In  the  fulness  of 
life  we  may  have  other  things  as  fair  and  cherished; 
but  that  one  individuality,  that  grace  and  sweetness, 
cannot  be  repeated.  In  time  we  must  say  of  it :  — 

"  Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 
Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 
Thou  art  gone,  and  forever ! " 

We  marvel  at  the  indestructible  gem,  but  love  the 
flower  for  its  share  in  our  own  doom.  If  the  violet, 
the  rose-gerardia,  the  yellow  jasmine,  were  unfading, 
imperishable,  what  would  their  worth  be  ?  Mimic 
them  exactly  in  wax,  reproduce  even  their  fragrance, 


1 82  BEAUTY 

and  the  copies  smack  of  embalmment.  We  have, 
indeed,  blooms  that  do  not  wither,  that  do  not  waste 
themselves  in  exhalations ;  we  call  them  immor- 
telles, but  we  feel  that  these  amaranthine,  husky 
blossoms  are  emblems  not  of  life  but  of  death ;  they 
cannot  have  souls,  else  they  would  not  be  so  change- 
less. Not  theirs 

"The  unquiet  spirit  of  a  flower 
That  hath  too  brief  an  hour." 

The  ecstatic  charm  of  nature  lies  in  her  evanish- 
ments.  Each  season  is  too  fair  to  last  ;  no  sunrise 
stays;  "the  rainbow  comes  and  goes;"  the  clouds 
change  and  fleet  and  fade  to  nothingness.  Thus 
sadness  dwells  with  beauty,  — 

"  Beauty  that  must  die ; 
And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 
Bidding  adieu." 

The  height  of  wisdom,  then,  is  to  make  the  most  of 
life's  best  moments,  to  realize  that  "  it  is  their  evan- 
Morimri  escence  makes  them  fair."  So  it  is  with 
saiutamus.  a}}  mortal  existence :  we  idealize  the  un- 
alterable fact  of  its  mortality.  Time  passes  like  a 
bird,  joy  withers,  even  Love  dies,  and  the  Graces 
ring  us  to  his  burial.  We  ask,  with  the  Hindu 
Prince,  concerning  life,  - 

"  Shall  it  pass  as  a  camp  that  is  struck,  as  a  tent  that  is  gathered  and 

gone 
From  the  sands  that  were  lamp-lit  at  eve,  and  at  morning  are  level 

and  lone  ? " 


"  WILD    WITH  ALL  REGRET"  183 

We  ask  with  sighs  and  tears,  but  would  we  have  it 
otherwise  ?  If  Poe  was  wrong  in  restricting  poetry 
to  the  voices  of  sorrow  and  regret,  he  was  right, 
methinks,  in  feeling  these  to  be  among  the  most 
effectual  of  lyrical  values.  The  word  Irreparable 
suggests  a  yearning  as  infinite  as  that  for  the  Un- 
attainable, under  the  spell  of  which  Richter  fled  as 
from  a  passion  too  intense  to  bear.  Yes  ;  From  c  ,s 
the  sweetest  sound  in  music  is  "  a  dying 
fall."  "  Mimnermus  in  Church  "  weighs  the  preach- 
er's adjuration,  and  makes  an  impetuous  reply:  — 

"  Forsooth  the  present  we  must  give 

To  that  which  cannot  pass  away  ! 
All  beauteous  things  for  which  we  live 

By  laws  of  time  and  space  decay. 
But  oh,  the  very  reason  why 

I  clasp  them  is  because  they  die." 

Among  priceless  lyrics  from  the  Greek  anthology 
to  our  own,  those  of  joy  and  happy  love  and  hope 
are  fair  indeed,  but  those  which  haunt  the  memory 
turn  upon  the  escape  —  not  the  retention  —  of  that 
which  is  "  rich  and  strange."  Their  charm  is  poign- 
ant, yet  ineffable.  The  consecration  of  such  en- 
during melody  to  regret  for  the  beloved,  whose 
swift,  inexplicable  transits  leave  us  dreaming  of  all 
they  might  have  been,  is  the  voice  of  our  desire 
that  their  work,  even  though  perfecting  in  some 
unknown  region,  may  not  wholly  fail  upon  earth,  — 
that  their  death  may  not  be  quite  untimely. 

How  subtile  the  effect,  even  in  its  English  ren- 


1 84  BEAUTY 

dering,  of  Villon's  "  Ballade  of  Dead  Ladies "  — • 
The  ecstasy  "  Where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year?" 
of  pathos.  ^re  any  iyrics  more  captivating  than  our 
English  dirges,  —  the  song  dirges  of  the  dramatists  : 
"  Come  away,  come  away,  Death."  "  Call  for  the 
robin  redbreast  and  the  wren,"  "  Full  fathom  five 
thy  father  lies,"  and  the  like  ?  Collins'  "  Dirge  for 
Fidele,"  a  mere  piece  of  studied  art,  acquires  its 
beauty  from  a  flawless  treatment  of  the  master- 
theme.  Add  to  such  art  the  force  of  a  profound 
emotion,  and  you  have  Wordsworth  in  his  more 
impassioned  lyrical  strains :  "  She  dwelt  among  the 
untrodden  ways,"  "  A  slumber  did  my  spirit  steal ; " 
and  the  stanzas  on  Ettrick's  "  poet  dead."  Lander's 
"  Rose  Aylmer "  owes  its  spell  to  a  consummate 
union  of  nature  and  art  in  recognition  of  the  una- 
vailability of  all  that  is  rarest  and  most  lustrous  :  — 

"  Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptred  race ! 

Ah,  what  the  form  divine  ! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace  ! 

Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 
Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee." 

—  Of  memories  and  of  sighs,  yet  not  of  pain,  for 
such  vigils  have  a  rapture  of  fheir  own.  The  per- 
ished have  at  least  the  gift  of  immortal  love,  remem- 
brance, tears  ;  and  at  our  festivals  the  unseen  guests 
are  most  apparent.  Thus  the  tuneful  plaint  of  sor- 
row, the  tears  "wild  with  all  regret,"  the  touch  that 


THE  NOTE  OF  EVANESCENCE  185 

consecrates,  the   preciousness   of  that   which   lives 
but   in   memory  and   echo   and   dreams,  move   the 
purest  spirit  of  poesy  to  sweep  the  perfect  minstrel 
lute.     To  such  a  poet  as  Robert  Bridges  ,,M  son  be 
the   note   of  evanescence   is   indeed  the  ifceanair!" 
note  of  charm,  and  in  choosing  the  symbols  of  it  for 
the  imagery  of  his  most  ravishing  song,1  he  knows 
that  thus,  and  thus  most  surely,  it  shall  haunt  us 
with  its  immortality  :  — 

"  I  have  loved  flowers  that  fade, 

Within  whose  magic  tents 
Rich  hues  have  marriage  made 

With  sweet  unmemoried  scents  — 
A  honeymoon  delight  — 
A  joy  of  love  at  sight, 
That  ages  in  an  hour:  — 
My  song  be  like  a  flower ! 

"  I  have  loved  airs  that  die 

Before  their  charm  is  writ 
Upon  a  liquid  sky 

Trembling  to  welcome  it. 
Notes  that,  with  pulse  of  fire, 
Proclaim  the  spirit's  desire, 
Then  die  and  are  nowhere  :  — 
My  song  be  like  an  air  ! 

"  Die,  song,  die  like  a  breath 

And  wither  as  a  bloom  : 
Fear  not  a  flowery  death, 

Dread  not  an  airy  tomb ! 
Fly  with  delight,  fly  hence ! 
'T  was  thine  love's  tender  sense 
To  feast,  now  on  thy  bier 
Beauty  shall  shed  a  tear." 

1  Poems  by  Robert  Bridges.    Oxford,  1884. 


VI. 

TRUTH. 

IF   all  natural  things  make  for  beauty,  —  if  the 
statement  is  well  founded  that  they  are  as  what  is 
beautiful  as  they  can  be  under  their  con-  Unity' o/* 
ditions,  —  then  truth  and  beauty,  in  the  ftST* 
last  reduction,  are  equivalent  terms,  and  beauty  is 
the  unveiled  shining  countenance  of  truth.      But  a 
given   truth,  to   be   beautiful,   must    be    complete. 
Tennyson's  line, 

"  A  He  which  is  half  a  truth  is  ever  the  blackest  of  lies," 

will  bear  inversion.  Truth  which  is  half  a  lie  is 
intolerable.  A  certain  kind  of  preachment,  antipa- 
thetic to  the  spirit  of  poesy,  has  received  the  name 
of  didacticism.  Instinct  tells  us  that  it  is  The  didactjc 
a  heresy  in  any  form  of  art.  Yet  many  heresy- 
persons,  after  being  assured  by  Keats  that  the  unity 
of  beauty  and  truth  is  all  we  know  or  need  to  know, 
are  perplexed  to  find  sententious  statements  of  un- 
disputed facts  so  commonplace  and  odious.  Note, 
meanwhile,  that  Keats'  assertion  illustrates  itself  by 
injuring  the  otherwise  perfect  poem  which  contains 
it.  So  obtrusive  a  moral  lessens  the  effect  of  the 
"Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn."  In  other  words,  the 


1 88  TRUTH 

beauty  of  the  poem  would  be  truer  without  it. 
Now,  why  does  a  bit  of  didacticism  take  the  life  out 
of  song,  and  didactic  verse  proclaim  its  maker  a 
proser  and  not  a  poet  ?  Because  pedagogic  formulas 
of  truth  do  not  convey  its  essence.  They  preach, 
Haif-truths  as  ^  have  said  elsewhere,  the  gospel  of 
are  odious.  half-truths,  uttered  by  those  who  have  not 
the  insight  to  perceive  the  soul  of  truth,  the  expres- 
sion of  which  is  always  beauty.  This  soul  is  found 
in  the  relations  of  things  to  the  universal,  and  its 
correct  expression  is  beautiful  and  inspiring. 

While  the  beautiful  expresses  all  these  relations, 
the  didactic  at  the  best  is  the  expression  of  one  or 
more  of  them,  —  often  of  arbitrary  and  temporal, 
not  of  essential  and  infinite,  relations.  We  there- 
fore detest  didactic  verse,  because,  though  made  by 
well-intentioned  people,  it  is  tediously  incomplete 
and  false. 

Poets  will  interpret  nature  truthfully,  within  their 
liberties;  they  do  not  assume  to  be  on  as  close 
terms  with  her,  or  with  her  Creator,  as  some  of  the 
teachers  and  preachers.  They  are  content  to  find 
the  grass  yet  bent  where  she  has  passed,  the  bough 
still  swaying  which  she  brushed  against.  They  feel 
that 

"  What  Nature  for  her  poets  hides 
'T  is  wiser  to  divine  than  clutch." 

The  imaginative  poets,  who  read  without  effort 
the  truth  of  things,  have  been  more  faithful  in  even 


DIDACTICISM— FACULTY  189 

their  passing  transcripts  of  nature  and  life  than 
many  who  conscientiously  attempt  a  por-  Trutha 
trayal.  Where  they  make  comments,  it  is  ™^,^the 
as  if  by  anticipation  of  the  reader;  it  is  bestart- 
not  so  much  their  own  conclusion  as  that  of  the 
observing  world.  The  truth,  moreover,  is  less  in 
the  comment  than  in  the  poetry,  —  is  rather  in  the 
song  than  in  the  obligate.  With  the  epic  or  dra- 
matic poet  the  motive  is  not  truth  of  description, 
but  truth  of  life.  Yet  how  much  surer  the  scenic 
touches  of  the  best  narrative  and  drama  than  the 
word-painting  of  the  so-called  descriptive  poets ! 
Compare  the  sudden  landscape,  the  life  of  its  popu- 
lous under-world,  the  sky  and  water,  the  sunlight 
and  moonlight  and  storm,  in  "A  Winter's  Tale" 
and  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  with  the  pro- 
longed and  pious  descriptions  in  Thomson's  "  Sea- 
sons." In  the  dramas  the  scenic  truth  is  incidental, 
yet  almost  incomparable  for  beauty ;  in  the  descrip- 
tive poem  it  is  elaborate  and  tame.  You  are  com- 
paring, to  be  sure,  the  greatest  of  poets  with  one 
relatively  humble,  but  the  latter  is  on  his  chosen 
ground,  and  gives  his  whole  mind  to  his  business. 
Something  more  than  sincerity  and  know-  Faculty 
ledge,  then,  is  needed  for  the  expression  intention. 
of  truth.  Superadd  noble  contemplation  and  the 
anointed  vision  that  reads  the  life  of  nature,  and  you 
have  Wordsworth,  a  poet  and  painter  indeed.  In  his 
greater  moods  he  assuredly  sets  us  face  to  face  with 
unadulterate  truth.  Even  Wordsworth  does  this 


190  TRUTH 

mt 

less  effectively,  when  his  interpretation  is  premedi- 
tated, than  certain  bards  whose  side-glimpses  of  the 
outdoor  world  we  interpret  for  ourselves.  Their 
chance  strokes  are  matchless.  The  classic  isles  and 
waters  are  all  before  us  in  the  "  Odyssey,"  charac- 
terized broadly  and  truthfully  by  essential  traits. 
Attica  glows  and  glooms  in  the  choruses  of  "  CEdi- 
pus  at  Colonos"  and  "The  Clouds;"  we  have  the 
atmosphere  that  suffuses  her  landscape,  action, 
personages.  Its  tone  is  just  as  capturable  now  as 
two  thousand  years  ago  under  the  sky  of  Sophocles 
and  Aristophanes.  The  phonograph  passes  no  more 
intelligibly  to  after  time  the  living  voice  of  a  Glad- 
" Descriptive"  stone  or  3.  Browning.  Rarely  is  there  an 
^°poetso/>'  avowedly  descriptive  poet  who  achieves 
P.  46.  much  more  than  the  asking  you  to  take 

his  word  for  a  mass  of  details.  To  come  near  home, 
this  was  what  such  American  landscapists  as  Street 
and  Percival  usually  succeeded  in  doing ;  while 
Lowell,  with  his  quick  eye  and  Greek  good-fellow- 
ship with  nature,  always  keeps  us  in  mind  of  her  as 
a  blithe  companion  by  his  side  when  he  chats  to  us, 
and  whether  on  the  rocks  of  Appledore,  or  under 
the  willows,  or  along  the  snow-paths  of  a  white  New 
England  night.  Cowper  got  nearer  to  truth  than 
Thomson  ;  he  pointed  to  the  naturalness  that 
Wordsworth  sought  in  turn,  —  and  found.  As  for 
Burns,  he  lay  in  nature's  heart,  and  —  whether  with 
or  without  design — expressed  her  as  simply  and 
surely  as  the  bards  of  old. 


PHYSICAL  NATURE— HUMAN  LIFE          19 1 

Of  both  truth  to  life  and  truth  to  physical  nature 
there  are  two  poetic  exhibits :  the  first,  Breadth  and 
broad;  the  second,  minute  and  analytic.  universa>lity- 
The  greater  the  poet,  the  simpler  and  larger  his 
statement,  however  fine  in  detail  when  need  be. 
Seeking  that  presentment  of  human  character  and 
experience  which  is  universal,  we  go  to  the  poets 
and  idylists  of  the  Bible,  to  Homer  and  the  Attic 
dramatists,  to  Cervantes  and  Shakespeare,  to  Mo- 
liere,  and  to  the  great  novelists  of  the  modern  age. 
In  poetry  life  has  never  been  treated  at  once  with 
so  much  intensity  and  truth,  by  many  contempora- 
ries, as  in  the  Elizabethan  period.  This  T^E,^. 
was  inevitable.  Our  early  dramatists  ^thans. 
wrote  for  instant  stage  production  ;  their  poetic  text 
was  of  much  import  in  default  of  the  perfected  act- 
ing and  accessories  which  now  render  the  text  less 
essential,  —  in  fact,  far  too  subordinate.  In  such 
"effects"  as  the  stage  production  then  made  practi- 
cable, Shakespeare  and  his  group  have  not  been 
excelled.  But  life  —  truth  of  life  and  character  — 
then  was  all  in  all ;  a  false  transcript  was  instantly 
detected  ;  the  dramatic  poet,  however  exuberant, 
founded  his  work  in  unflinching  realism.  Situations 
and  trivial  sentiment  now  make  the  playwright,  and 
even  Tennyson  and  Browning  have  been  unable  to 
restore  the  muse  conspicuously  to  the  stage.  The 
laureate's  genius,  to  be  sure,  is  the  reverse  of  dra- 
matic. Browning  had  the  requisite  passion  and 
dramatic  instinct ;  life  and  motive  engrossed  him 


IQ2  TRUTH 

beyond  all  else.  But  contrast  the  bold,  direct  Eliza- 
The  analytic  bethan  characters  with  Browning's  per- 

method.     Cp.  . 

"Victorian  sonages, — whose  thought  and  action  are 
p-432-  analyzed  by  him  to  the  remotest  detail. 

His  drama  is  unique,  but  not  in  the  free  and  instant 
spirit  of  poetry  ;  it  is  not  so  much  life  as  biology. 
The  distinction  recalls  that  tradition  of  the  Massa- 
chusetts bar.  Webster  and  Choate  often  were  op- 
posed in  leading  cases.  The  former  brought  his 
power  and  learning  to  bear  upon  the  main  issue  of  a 
case,  and  brushed  aside  the  inessentials.  Choate 
delighted  to  follow  every  trail  to  the  uttermost,  and 
in  a  manner  as  analytic  as  that  of  "  The  Ring  and 
the  Book."  The  jurors  marvelled  at  Choate's  intel- 
lectual dexterity  and  glitter,  but  Webster  usually 
won  the  verdict.  The  jury  of  an  author  is  the  read- 
ing world.  In  prose  romance  America  puts  forward 
a  counterpart  to  Browning,  —  Mr.  Henry  James,  ex- 
cept that  he  never  sacrifices  an  imperturbable  refine- 
ment of  style ;  besides,  with  reference  to  his  novels 
at  least,  he  usually  avoids,  as  if  on  principle,  the  con- 
centrated passion  and  the  dramatic  situations  that 
at  times  make  Browning  so  impressive. 

On  the  other  hand,  when  Browning,  the  anatomist 
Browning,  °^  numan  life*  interests  himself  with  side- 
Tennyson',  etc.  giimpses  of  nature,  he  is  full  of  simple 

truth,  and  with  a  sure  instinct  for  essentials.  His 
lyrics  abound  in  these  beautiful  surprises.  He  for- 
gets the  laboratory  when  he  touches  landscape  and 
outdoor  life,  and  is  all  the  artist.  Nature  has  but 


ANALYSIS  — DIRECT  STATEMENT        193 

one  truer  painter  among  the  dramatists,  and  the 
best  touches  of  both  seem  incidental.  When  Brown- 
ing thinks  of  birds  and  beasts  they  suddenly,  as  in 
the  Arabian  Nights,  become  almost  human.  He 
reads  the  heart,  one  might  say,  of  a  bird,  a  horse,  or 
a  dog.  This  Tennyson  does  not  do,  nor  does  he 
usually  give  us  vivid  personal  characters,  admirably 
as  he  draws  conventional  types.  His  truth  to  nature 
is  positive ;  he  has  the  eye  of  a  Thoreau,  and  the 
pastoral  fidelity  which  befits  one  who  is  not  only  the 
pupil  of  Milton  and  Keats,  but  of  Theocritus  and 
Wordsworth.  He  can  treat  broadly,  and  imagina- 
tively withal,  "  the  league-long  roller  thundering  on 
the  reef"  and  "the  long  wash  of  Australasian  seas;" 
but  his  frequent  over-elaboration  led  the  way  to  a 
main  fault  of  the  younger  schools. 

While  a  poet  cannot  be  too  accurate,  his  method, 
to  be  natural,  must  seem  unconscious.  Naturalness. 
The  virtue  of  a  truth  is  spoiled  by  showing  it  off. 
Tennyson,  the  idylist,  pauses  at  critical  moments, 
not  perhaps  to  moralize  on  the  situation,  but  to 
make  a  picture  suggesting  the  feeling  which  the 
action  itself  ought  to  convey.  This  practice,  for  a 
time  so  fascinating,  has  been  carried  to  extremes. 
Now,  in  a  class  of  his  poems  of  which  "Dora"  is  a 
fine  example,  he  has  shown  that  nothing  can  be 
more  effective  than  a  story  simply  told.  A  direct 

statement,  through  its  truth,  often  has  ex-  Force  of  a  di- 
rect and  sim- 

ceeding  beauty, —  the  beauty,  pathetic  or  pie  method, 
otherwise,  of  perfect  naturalness.    You  find  it  every- 
where in  the  Scriptures  ;  for  example  :  — 


194  TRUTH 

"  I  shall  go  to  him,  but  he  shall  not  return  to  me ;  " 

and  everywhere  in  Homer  :  — 

"  A  thousand  fires  burned  in  the  plain,  and  by  the  side  of  each  sate 
fifty  in  the  gleam  of  blazing  fire." 

"  A  deep  sleep  fell  upon  his  eyelids,  a  sound  sleep,  very  sweet,  and 
most  akin  to  death." 

All  genuine  epics  and  ballads  are  charged  with  it,  as 
in  "  The  Children  in  the  Wood  : "  — 

"  No  burial  this  pretty  pair 

Of  any  man  receives, 
Till  Robin-redbreast  piously 
Did  cover  them  with  leaves." 

In  the  heroic  vein,  Arnold's  "  Sohrab  and  Rustum  " 
has  a  primitive  directness  :  — 

"  So  said  he,  and  his  voice  released  the  heart 
Of  Rustum  ;  and  his  tears  broke  forth  ;  he  cast 
His  arms  around  his  son's  neck,  and  wept  aloud, 
And  kissed  him.     And  awe  fell  on  both  the  hosts 
When  they  saw  Rustum's  grief." 

The  finest  touch  in  Lady  Barnard's  ballad  is  the 
simplest,  —  that  of  the  line, 

"  For  auld  Robin  Gray  is  kind  unto  me." 

But  I  need  not  multiply  such  examples  of  the  beauty 
of  direct  statement  of  unsophisticated  truth.  It  is 
too  rare  a  grace  among  the  analytic  and  decorative 
poets. 

When  we  come  to  the  reflective  poetry  of  nature, 
the  broad  effects   of  Wordsworth  and    Bryant  are 


AMERICAN  LANDSCAPE  SCHOOL          195 

both  true  and  imaginative,  and  therefore  excellent 
realism.      For  Nature  does  not  differen-  Truth  to  visi- 
tiate  her  beauties  ;  she  combines  them.    It  ble  Nature" 
is  hard  to  better  the  truth  "  by  her  own  sweet  and 
cunning  hand  put  on."     Bryant's  succes-  Excellence  of 

the  American 

sors  — Whittier,  Lowell,  Whitman,  La-  school. 
nier,  Taylor  —  have  great  fidelity  to  nature.  How 
can  they  help  it,  brought  up  in  her  own  realm  ? 
Their  touches  are  spontaneous,  and  that  is  every- 
thing. A  city-bred  poet  is  apt  to  strike  false  notes 
as  soon  as  he  hints  at  an  intimacy  with  nature,  and 
a  false  note  is  as  quickly  detected  in  poetry  as  in 
music,  even  by  those  who  cannot  sound  the  true 
one.  As  for  truth  to  life  —  that  depends  on  the 
poet's  sympathetic  perception.  It  was  native  to 
Burns ;  it  was  impossible  with  the  self-absorbed 
Byron.  Most  poets,  whether  cockney  or  rustic,  can 
draw  only  the  types  under  their  direct  observation. 
Whitman's  out-of-door  poetry  should  be  Wh.:tmanand 
familiar  to  you.  His  admirers,  including  Lanier- 
very  authoritative  judges  at  home  and  abroad,  make 
almost  every  claim  for  him  except  that  to  which,  in 
my  opinion,  he  is  entitled  above  other  American 
poets.  I  know  no  other  who  surpasses  him  as  a 
word-painter  of  nature.  His  eye  is  keen,  his  touch 
is  accurate.  No  one  depicts  the  American  sky, 
ocean,  forest,  prairie,  more  characteristically  or  with 
a  freer  sense  of  atmosphere  ;  no  one  is  so  inclusive 
of  every  object,  living  or  inanimate,  in  the  zones 
covered  by  our  native  land.  His  defects  lie  in  his 


196  TRUTH 

theory  of  unvarying  realism.  Nature's  poet  must 
adopt  her  own  method  ;  and  she  hides  the  processes 
that  are  unpleasant  to  see  or  consider.  Whitman 
often  dwells  upon  the  under  side  of  things, — the 
decay,  the  ferment,  the  germination,  which  nature 
conducts  in  secret,  though  out  of  them  she  produces 
new  life  and  beauty.  Lanier,  with  equal  fidelity, 
avoids  —  a  refined  and  spiritual  genius  needs  must 
avoid  —  this  irritating  mistake.  His  taste  made  him 
an  open  critic  of  the  robust  poet  of  democracy :  but 
it  is  manifest  that  the  two  (as  near  and  as  different 
as  Valentine  and  Orson)  were  moving  in  the  same 
direction  ;  that  is,  for  an  escape  from  conventional 
trammels  to  something  free,  from  hackneyed  time- 
beats  to  an  assimilation  of  nature's  larger  rhythm, — 
to  limitless  harmonies  suggested  by  the  voices  of 
her  winds  and  the  diapason  of  her  ocean  billows. 
The  later  portions  of  Whitman's  life-work,  his  sym- 
phonies of  "  starry  night,"  of  death  and  immortality, 
have  chords  that  would  have  thrilled  Lanier  pro- 
foundly. 

In  certain  poems  which  have   been    humorously 

True  realism     compared  to  "  catalogues,"  Whitman  sup- 
is  not  a  state- 
ment of  facts,     phes  an   example  of  the  uselessness  of  a 

display  of  mere  facts.  Facts,  despite  Carlyle's  eu- 
logy upon  them,  are  not  "  the  one  "  and  only  "  pabu- 
lum." They  are  the  stones  heaped  about  the  mouth 
of  the  well  in  whose  depth  truth  reflects  the  sky.1 

1  "  There  is  a  way  of  killing  truth  by  truths.  Under  the  pretence 
that  we  want  to  study  it  more  in  detail,  we  pulverize  the  statue." 
—  AMIEL. 


ILLUMINATIVE   REALISM  197 

I  recall  the  words  of  Sir  William  Davenant,  who 
wrote  the  feeblest  of  epics  on  a  theory,  yet  pre- 
luded it  with  a  chapter  of  noble  prose  wherein, 
among  other  fine  discriminations,  he  says  :  "  Truth, 
narrative  and  past,  is  the  idol  of  historians  (who 
worship  a  dead  thing),  and  truth,  operative  and  by 
its  effects  continually  alive,  is  the  mistress  of  poets, 
who  hath  not  her  existence  in  matter  but  in  reason." 
A  masterwork  appeals,  in  time  if  not  immediately, 
to  the  people  at  large  as  well  as  to  the  elect  few,  — 
to  the  former,  doubtless,  by  its  obvious  intent  and 
fidelity ;  to  the  critical,  by  its  ideal  and  artistic 
truth  ;  yet  I  think  that  the  more  esoteric  quality  is 
felt,  if  not  comprehended,  even  by  the  masses, — 
that  this  makes,  however  vaguely  and  mysteriously, 
an  impression  upon  their  natures.  Realism,  in  the 
sense  of  naturalism,  is  the  firm  ground  of  all  the 
arts,  but  the  poet,  then,  is  not  a  realist  merely  as 
concerns  the  things  that  are  seen.  He  draws  these 
as  they  are,  but  as  they  are  or  may  be  at  their  best. 
This  lifts  them  out  of  the  common,  or,  noraservile 
rather,  it  is  thus  we  get  at  the  "power  imitation- 
and  mystery  of  common  things."  His  most  auda- 
cious imaginings  are  within  the  felt  possibilities  of 
nature.  But  the  use  of  poetry  is  to  make  us  believe 
also  in  the  impossible.  Raphael  said  that  he  painted 
"  that  which  ought  to  be."  And  Browning  writes  : 

"  In  the  hall,  six  steps  from  us, 
One  sees  the  twenty  pictures  —  there  's  a  life 
Better  than  life  —  and  yet  no  life  at  all." 


TRUTH 


Lord  Tennyson  is  reported  as  saying,  with  respect 
it  i  vital  with    to  certain  contemporary  writers  :  "  Truth, 

suggestion  and  . 

interpretation,  as  they  understand  it,  is  not  the  essential 
thing  in  poetry.  For  me  verses  have  no  other  aim 
than  to  call  to  life  nobler  and  better  sentiments  than 
we  feel,  and  express  in  every-day  life.  If  they  can 
suggest  pictures  worthy  of  an  artist's  eye,  so  much 
the  better."  Even  the  first  English  writer  upon  the 
topic  —  George  Puttenham,  whose  "Arte  of  Eng- 
lish Poesie  "  was  published  anonymously  in  the  year 
1589  —  said  that  "Arte  is  not  only  an  aide  and 
coadjutor  to  nature  in  all  her  actions,  but  an  alterer 
of  them,  so  as  by  meanes  of  it  her  owne  effects  shall 
appeare  more  beautiful  or  straunge  and  miraculous." 
And  so  there  is  nothing  more  lifeless,  because  no- 
thing is  more  devoid  of  feeling  and  suggested  move- 
ment, than  servilely  accurate  imitation  of  nature. 
Moreover,  in  poetry  as  in  all  other  art,  a  certain 
deviation  from  fact  is  not  only  justifiable,  but  re- 
quired. Some  things  must  be  told  or  painted  not 
Tnuh  of  as  ^ey  are»  but  as  tneY  affect  the  eye  or 
thlfhumln  the  imagination.  The  photograph  reveals, 
indeed,  the  absolute  position  of  the  horse's 
legs  at  a  given  instant  ;  by  its  aid  the  spokes  of 
the  revolving  wheel  are  defined.  Without  doubt, 
art  has  learned  most  important  facts  through  the 
photographic  demonstration  of  actual  processes  ; 
our  animal-  and  figure-painters,  our  sculptors,  can 
never  repeat  the  absurd  untruths  which  have  be- 
come almost  academic  in  the  past.  They  will  not, 


OF  PERSONAL   SENSATION  199 

and  need  not,  however,  go  to  the  other  extreme.  To 
the  human  eye,  with  its  halting  susceptibilities,  the 
horse  and  the  wheel  do  not  appear  exactly  as  when 
caught  by  Mr.  Muybridge's  camera,  and  the  artist's 
office  is  to  present  them  as  they  seem  to  us.  In  the 
prosaic  photograph  they  are  struck  with  death  :  the 
idea  of  life,  of  motion,  can  only  be  conveyed  by 
blending  the  spokes  of  the  wheel  as  they  are  blended 
to  the  human  vision,  and  by  giving  a  certain  un- 
reality of  grace  to  the  speeding  animal.  Otherwise, 
you  have  the  fact,  which  is  not  art. 

Thus  every  workman  must  be  a  realist  in  know- 
ledge, an  idealist  for  interpretation,  and  Poetic  truth  is 

.  . .    •  ,  both  realistic 

the  antagonism  between  realists  and  ro-  and  ideal.  - 

See,  also, 

mancers  is  a  forced  one ;  and  when  any  p- 145- 
one  rules  the  poet  out  of  debate,  as  of  course  a 
feigner,  he  is  in  error,  for  the  same  law  applies  to 
all  the  arts.  The  true  inquiry  concerns  the  quality 
of  the  writer,  his  power  of  expression,  the  limits  of 
his  character.  For  no  small  and  limited  nature  can 
enter  into  great  passions  and  experiences. 

It  is  a  fine  thing  for  a  poet  to  express  the  life, 
feeling,  ideal,  of  his  own  people;  by  so  Truth  of 
doing,  he  betters  his  chance  of  commend-  environment- 
ing  himself  to  after  times.     This  is  what  the  Greeks 
did,  but  in  our  century  we  find  poet  after  poet  ex- 
ercising his  skill  upon   reproductions,  working   the 
Grecian   myths   and   legends   over  and   over   again 
in  pseudo-classical   lyrics,  idyls,  and  dramas.     The 


200  TRUTH 

appeal  of  the  loveliest  and  most  successful  nova 
antica  —  of  a  poem  like  "The  Hamadryad"  or 
"CEnone"  —  is  to  the  aesthetic  sense  chiefly,  and 
therefore  in  some  measure  restricted.  After  Lan- 
Raison  d'etre,  dor  and  Keats  and  Tennyson  and  Swin- 
burne, our  younger  school  cannot  find  a  real  need 
for  this  sort  of  thing.  I  remember  my  own  cha- 
grin, twenty  years  ago,  when  Mr.  Lowell  wrote  a 
most  judicious  notice  of  one  of  my  books,  and  failed 
to  mention  a  blank-verse  poem,  with  a  classical 
theme,  upon  which  I  had  expended  the  technical 
"Local  skill  and  imagery  at  my  command.  On 

flavor"  not  to  ,  L          ••     j 

be  contemned,  the  other  hand,  he  was  more  than  kind  to 
my  native,  if  homely,  American  lyrics  and  ballads, 
written  with  less  pains,  yet  more  spontaneously ; 
and  he  told  me  very  frankly  that  he  thought  the 
simple  home-fruit  of  more  real  significance  than  my 
attempt  to  reproduce  some  apple  of  the  Hesperides. 
He  was  right,  and  I  have  not  forgotten  the  lesson. 
With  respect  to  another  art,  I  wonder  that  the 
A  home-field.  American  sculptor  does  not  still  more 
frequently  make  a  diversion  from  his  imitations  of 
the  mediaeval  and  the  antique.  What  subjects  he 
has  close  at  hand,  —  such  as  a  Greek,  if  he  now 
could  chance  upon  them,  would  handle  with  eager- 
ness and  truth  !  Surely  our  American  workman,  at 
labor  and  in  repose,  our  young  athletes,  our  beasts 
of  the  forest  and  of  the  field,  are  available  models  ; 
and  Ward's  "  Indian  Hunter,"  Donoghue's  "  The 
Boxer,"  and  Tilden's  "The  Ball-Thrower,"  at  least 


OF  ENVIRONMENT  2OI 

convey  their  suggestion  of  what  should  and  will  be 
done.  There  is  a  certain  lack  of  sincer-  sincerity, 
ity,  despite  their  artistic  beauty,  in  the  foreign  and 
antique  exploits  of  many  poets  and  artists  ;  and 
lack  of  sincerity  is  always  Jack  of  truth.  But,  while 
they  should  favor  their  own  time,  they  must  avoid 
expression  of  its  transient  passions  and  character- 
istics. Seize  upon  the  essential,  lasting  traits,  and 
let  the  others  be  accessory.  If  the  general  spirit 
of  the  time  be  not  embodied,  a  work  is  soon  out  of 
date. 

Against  all  this,  the  widest  freedom  is  permitted 
to  that   chartered   libertine,  —  the   poet's  But  nothing  is 

...  _  _  -  11-  forbidden  to 

imagination.     .Nature  and  the  soul  being  theimagina- 

tion,  and  a 

the   same   forever,  we   care   nothing  for  poet  may 

follow  his 

Shakespeare's  anachronisms  and  impossi-  beat- 
ble  geography ;  we  find  nothing  strange  and  unnat- 
ural in  his  assembly  of  mediaeval  fays  and  antique 
heroes  and  amazons,  of  English  clowns  and  mechan- 
ics in  Grecian  garb,  all  commingled  to  enact  a  fan- 
tastic marvel  of  comedy  and  poesy  in  the  palace 
and  forests  of  a  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream."  We 
confess  the  poet's  witchcraft,  and  ourselves  are  of 
the  blithe  company,  —  denizens  of  an  enchanted 
land,  where  everything  has  the  truth  of  possibility. 
A  conception  is  not  vitiated  by  the  most  novel  form 
it  may  assume,  provided  that  this  be  artistic  and  not 
artificial.  For  art,  as  Goethe  and  Haydon  have  said, 
is  art  because  it  is  not  nature.  That  method  is  most 
true  which,  invoking  the  force  of  nature,  directs  it 


202  TRUTH 

by  its  own  device  ;  just  as,  in  mechanics,  the  screw- 
Art  has  a  propeller  is  more  than  the  equivalent 

truth  of  its  * 

own.  of  the   fish's  flukes  or  the   bird's   wing. 

Our  delight  in  art  proceeds  from  a  knowledge  that 
it  is  not  inevitable,  but  designed  ;  a  human,  not  a 
natural,  creation  ;  the  truth  of  nature's  capabilities, 
seen  by  man's  imagination,  captured  by  the  human 
hand,  expressed  and  illumined  when  our  Creator, 
intrusting  his  own  wand  to  us,  bids  us  test  its  power 
ourselves. 

What    is   called  descriptive  poetry  never  can  be 
The  poet         very   satisfying,  since   the   painter   is   so 

inferior  to  the  ,  ,.  ,  ,  - 

painter  in  much  more  capable  than  the  poet  of 
nature;  transferring  the  visible  effects  of  nature, 

— those  addressed  to  the  eye.  I  suppose  it  is  out  of 
the  power  of  one  not  reared  in  England,  and  in  that 
very  part  of  England  which  lies  between  Derwent- 
water  and  the  Wye,  to  comprehend  thoroughly  the 
truth  and  beauty  of  Wordsworth's  pastoral  note  and 
landscape.  Neither  can  a  foreigner  rightly  estimate 
the  American  idylists  ;  the  New  World  scenery  and 
atmosphere  are  so  different  from  the  European  that 
they  must  be  seen  before  their  quality  can  be  felt. 
Aside  from  this  limitation,  the  poet  expresses  what 
he  finds  in  nature,  to  wit,  that  which  an- 

but  unsur- 

suDjectivSeher  swers  to  his  own  needs  and  temper.  Her 
interpreter.  interpretation  has  been,  it  may  almost  be 
said,  a  special  function  of  the  century  now  closing. 
Nature  moved  Coleridge  to  eloquence,  rhapsody, 


SUBJECTIVE  INTERPRETATION          203 

worship,  and,  as  an  artist,  to  imaginative  mysticism. 
Heine,  Longfellow,  Swinburne,  have  read  the  secret 
of  the  sea.  To  Landor,  Emerson,  and  Lowell  the 
tree  is  animate ;  in  their  presence  the  illustrations, 
flower  has  rights  :  they  would  not  fell  the  one  nor 
pluck  the  other.  But  there  were  two  English  poets 
whose  respective  temperaments  answered  perfectly 
to  the  two  conditions  of  nature  embraced  in  Lord 
Bacon's  profound  observation,  that  "  In  nature 
things  move  violently  to  their  place  and  calmly  in 
their  place."  Byron's  fitful  genius  was  Byron's 

impetuous 

stirred  by  her  violence  of  change.     The  unrest, 
rolling  surges,  the  tempest,  the  live  thunder  leaping 
from  peak  to  peak,  mated  the  restlessness  of  a  spirit 
charged  with  their  own  intensity  of  motion  and  de- 
sire.     Wordsworth  felt  the  sublimity  of  Wordsworth»s 
the  repose  that  lies  on  every  height,  of  v1s^far^d 
nature's  ultimate  subjection  to  law.     His  p 
imagination  comprehended  her  reserved  forces ;  and 
before  his  time  her  deepest  voice  had  no  apt  inter- 
preter, for  none  had  listened  with  an  ear  so  patient 
as  his  for  mastery  of  her  language.     His  announce- 
ment that 

"  he  who  feels  contempt 
For  any  living  thing,  hath  faculties 
Which  he  has  never  used," 

was  like  a  revelation.  That  he  had  purged  himself 
of  all  such  baseness  was  his  absolute  conviction  ;  in 
such  matters  he  was  a  kind  of  Gladstone  among  the 
poets  of  his  day.  Therefore,  self -contemplation,  or, 


204  TRUTH 

to  be  more  exact,  the  transcription  of  nature's  effect 
upon  himself,  seemed  to  him  a  sane,  even  a  sacred 
vocation.  In  fact,  a  lofty,  if  not  inventive,  imagina- 
tion, and 

"  An  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power  of  harmony," 

gave  him  for  this  faith  a  warrant  which  all  his  pon- 
derous homiletics  could  not  render  null.  As  he  let 
The  modem  "  the  misty  mountain  winds"  blow  on 

return  to  .  .     . 

nature.  him,  he  was  nature  s  living  oracle.     And 

the  world  soon  yielded  to  the  force  of  that  "pathetic 
fallacy  "  which  has  imparted  to  modern  thought  a 
distemper  and  a  compensation  :  the  refuge,  be  it  real 
or  illusionary,  still  left  to  us,  and  so  compulsive  that 
neither  reason  nor  science  can  quite  rid  us  of  it 
when  face  to  face  with  nature,  —  when  soothed  by 
the  sweet  influences  of  our  mother  Earth.  It  is  true, 
in  Lander's  words,  that 

"  We  are  what  suns  and  winds  and  waters  make  us  ; 
The  mountains  are  our  sponsors,  and  the  rills 
Fashion  and  win  their  nursling  with  their  smiles." 

But  Ruskin  avers  that  the  illusion  under  which  we 
fondly  believe  nature  to  be  the  sympathetic  partici- 
pator of  our  sentiment  or  passion,  and  which   he 
terms  the  pathetic  fallacy,  is   incompatible  with  a 
clear-seeing  acceptance  of  the  truth  of  things. 
Now,  that  there  is  a  solace  —  a  companionship  — 
m  nature  none  can  doubt.     It  is  as 


The  "  athetk 

fallacy."  o\£  as  the   fabie   of  Antaeus.      Primitive 


races  feel  it  so  strongly  that  they  inform  all  natural 


THE  PATHETIC  FALLACY  205 

objects  with  sentient  individual  lives  ;  our  more  ad- 
vanced intelligence  conceives  of  a  universal  spirit 
that  comprehends  and  soothes  Earth's  children.  In 
our  own  youth,  nature  haunts  us  "  like  a  passion  ; " 
and  as  concerning  the  youth  of  a  race  we  "cannot 
paint  what  then  "  we  were,  in  mature  years  each  of 
us  can  say,  — 

"  And  I  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts  ;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man. 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things." 

This  has  never  been  expressed  so  well  as  in  Words- 
worth's elevated  phrases.      They   must   always   be 
cited.      But  a  disenchantment  is  at  last  Expressions 
upon  us,  and  we  are  sternly  questioning  i*^°™nd 
our  reason.    Is  not  nature's  apparent  sym-  thenewdoubt- 
pathy,  we  ask,  a  purely  subjective  illusion?     The  old 
belief,  the  new  doubt,  are  well  conveyed  in  the  early 
and  later  treatment  of  a  favorite  theme,  —  the  moan- 
ing of   a  sea-shell   held  to  the  ear.      In   Landor's 
"  Gebir  "  we  have  it  thus  :  — 

"  But  I  have  sinuous  shells  of  pearly  hue ;  The  shell's 

murmur,  as 
idealized  by 

Shake  one  and  it  awakens,  then  apply  Wordsworth 

Its  polished  lips  to  your  attentive  ear, 

And  it  remembers  its  august  abodes, 

And  murmurs  as  the  ocean  murmurs  there." 


206  TRUTH 

Landor  complained  that  Wordsworth  stole  his  shell, 
and  "  pounded  and  flattened  it  in  his  marsh "  of 
"  The  Excursion  "  :  — 

"  I  have  seen 

A  curious  child,  who  dwelt  upon  a  tract 
Of  inland  ground,  applying  to  his  ear 
The  convolutions  of  a  smooth-lipped  shell  ; 
To  which,  in  silence  hushed,  his  very  soul 
Listened  intensely ;  and  his  countenance  soon 
Brightened  with  joy ;  for  from  within  were  heard 
Murmurings,  whereby  the  monitor  expressed 
Mysterious  union  with  its  native  sea." 

Byron  acknowledged  his  obligations  to  "Gebir"  for 
his  lines  in  "The  Island,"  beginning, — 

"  The  Ocean  scarce  spake  louder  with  his  swell, 
Than  breathes  his  mimic  murmurer  in  the  shell." 

And  now,  as  we  near  the  close  of  the  century  which 
"  Gebir  "  initiated,  Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

And  as  now 

reinterpreted     devotes  one  of  his  remarkable  sonnets  to 

by  Lee-Hamil- 

this  same  murmur  of  the  shell,  and  I  can- 
not find  a  more  poetic,  more  impassioned  recogni- 
tion of  the  veil  which  modern  doubt  is  drawing  be- 
tween our  saddened  eyes  and  the  beautiful  pathetic 
fallacy :  — 

"  The  hollow  sea-shell  which  for  years  hath  stood 
On  dusty  shelves,  when  held  against  the  ear 
Proclaims  its  stormy  parent ;  and  we  hear 

The  faint  far  murmur  of  the  breaking  flood. 

We  hear  the  sea.     The  sea  ?    It  is  the  blood 
In  our  own  veins,  impetuous  and  near, 
And  pulses  keeping  pace  with  hope  and  fear 

And  with  our  feelings'  ever-shifting  mood. 


THE  SHELLS  MURMUR  207 

"  Lol  in  my  heart  I  hear,  as  in  a  shell, 

The  murmur  of  a  world  beyond  the  grave, 
Distinct,  distinct,  though  faint  and  far  it  be. 
Thou  fool !  this  echo  is  a  cheat  as  well,  — 

The  hum  of  earthly  instincts ;  and  we  crave 
A  world  unreal  as  the  shell-heard  sea." 

How  beautiful   this    ecstasy  of   disenchantment,  — 
beautiful  in  its  sad   sincerity,  —  and   yet  Truth  ^fore 
how  piteous  !     Here  is  a  fine  spirit,  for  all> 
the  moment  baffled,  heroically  demanding  the  truth, 
the  truth.     More   trustfully  leaving  the  future   to 
"the  Power  that  makes  for  good,"  Lowell  also  con- 
fronts the  scientific  analysis  of  our  attitude  toward 
nature :  — 

"  What  we  call  Nature,  all  outside  ourselves, 
Is  but  our  own  conceit  of  what  we  see, 
Our  own  reaction  upon  what  we  feel ; 
The  world  's  a  woman  to  our  shifting  mood, 
Feeling  with  us,  or  making  due  pretence  ; 
And  therefore  we  the  more  persuade  ourselves 
To  make  all  things  our  thoughts'  confederates, 
Conniving  with  us  in  whate'er  we  dream." 

The  poet,  to  be  aware  of   this,  must  have  drifted 
quite  away  from  the  antique  point  of  view,   though  with 
The  Greek  certainly  made  nature  popu-  ment. 
lous  with  dryads,  oreads,  naiads,  and  all  the  daugh- 
ters of  Nereus  ;  but  these  had  a  joy  and,  like  Jaques, 
a  melancholy  of  their  own,  not  those  of   common 
mortals.     Doubtless  the  Greek  felt  the  charm  of  the 
hour  when  twilight  descended  on  his  valley,  but  not 
the  pensive  suggestions  of  the  Whence  and  Whither 
which  it  excites  in  you  and  me.     "  No  young  man," 


208  TRUTH 

said  Hazlitt,  "  ever  thinks  he  shall  die."  He  recog- 
nizes death,  but  it  concerns  him  not.  The  Greek 
accepted  it  as  a  natural  process  ;  he  yielded  to  na- 
ture ;  we  adjure  her,  as  Manfred  adjured  his  spirits, 
and  fain  would  compel  her  to  our  service  and  demand 
her  to  surrender  the  eternal  secret. 

Nature,  even  in  her  most  tranquil  mood,  is  palpi- 
why  Nature     tant  w^^  moti°n>  m  yiew  of  which  Hum- 

anddcSompaCn-        D°ldt  WaS  at  timeS  a  P°et-       Motion  is  life, 

ionswp,  and  therefore  fellowship.  Herein  lies  the 
spell  of  the  sea,  which  has  mastered  Heine  and 
Shelley  and  every  poetic  soul.  Its  perpetual  change, 
eternal  endurance  —  these  image  both  life  and  im- 
mortality ;  its  far-away  vessels  moving  to  unknown 
climes,  its  unbounded  horizon  suggesting  infinity, 
buoy  the  imagination,  and  thence  come  human  pas- 
sion and  thoughts  "  too  deep  for  tears."  We  have 
conquered  it,  and  it  is  the  modern  poet's  comrade, 
as  it  was  the  ancient's  fear  and  marvel.  But  what 
is  the  sea?  Tennyson's  "still  salt  pool,  lock'd  in 
with  bars  of  sand,"  would  be  an  ocean  to  a  man  re- 
duced to  insect  size, —  a  stretch  of  water,  infused 
with  salt,  and  roughened  into  wavelets  by  the  air 
that  moves  across  it.  We  have  learned  that  the 
effect  of  the  sea,  of  a  prairie,  of  a  mountain,  is  purely 
relative.  One  of  the  latest  "Atlantic"  novelists, 
with  youth's  contemporaneousness,  realizes  both  the 
fact  and  the  dream.  Her  lovers  are  watching  "a 
big,  red,  distorted  moon  above  the  illimitable  palpi- 
tating waste  "  of  the  ocean  :  — 


"A   MOTION  AND  A   SPIRIT"  209 

"  A  waning  moon  is  so  melancholy,"  said  Felicia,  look- 
ing at  it  with  wide,  soft  eyes  that  had  grown  melancholy, 
too.  "  I  wonder  why  ? " 

"  I  don't  see  that  it  is  melancholy,"  Grafton  declared. 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,"  she  rejoined.  "  I  dare  say  you 
see  a  planet  which  suggests  to  you  apogee,  or  perigee,  or 
something  wise.  I  see  only  the  rising  moon,  and  it  seems 
to  me  particularly  ominous  to-night.  I  am  afraid.  Some- 
thing unexpected  —  perhaps  something  terrible  —  is  going 
to  happen." 

You  will  note,  by  the  way,  that  our  debutante  is  sci- 
entifically accurate  upon  a  matter  in  re-  andthisin 
spect  to  which  many  a  good  writer  has  ^entific°ur 
gone  wrong.  She  sees  the  moon  where  readJustraent- 
it  should  be  of  an  evening  in  its  third  quarter, —  to 
wit,  rising  in  the  east.  Giving  the  author  of  "  Feli- 
cia" credit  for  this  unusual  feat,  I  believe  that  rea- 
son never  can  greatly  lessen  the  influence  of  nature 
upon  our  feelings,  and  this  in  spite  of  her  stolid 
indifference,  her  want  of  compassion,  her  stern  laws, 
her  unfairness,  unreason,  and  general  unmorality. 
To  the  last,  man  will  be  awed  by  the  ocean  and  sad- 
dened by  the  waning  moon,  and  will  find  the  sun- 
kissed  waves  sparkling  with  his  joy,  and  the  stars  of 
even  looking  down  upon  his  love.  One  may  con- 
ceive, moreover,  that  before  a  vast  and  various  land- 
scape we  are  affected  by  the  very  presence  of  divin- 
ity revealed  only  in  his  works ;  that,  face  to  face 
with  such  an  expanse  of  nature,  we  recognize  more 
of  a  pervading  spirit  than  when  more  closely  pent : 


210  TRUTH 

as  in  a  house  of  worship,  with  a  host  of  others  like 
ourselves,  we  have  more  of  him  incarnate  in  human- 
ity; whence  comes  a  strange  exaltation,  and  at  times 
almost  a  yearning  to  be  reabsorbed  in  the  infinite 
being  from  which  our  individual  life  has  sprung. 

The  aspect  and  sentiment  of  nature,  more  than 
Nature  the  other  incentives  to  mental  elevation,  have 
moderagartf  supplied  a  motive  to  the  artistic  expres- 

andsong. 


mains  of  the  painter  and  the  poet,  and  on  both  sides 
of  the  Atlantic,  the  idealization  of  nature  has  been, 
as  never  before,  supreme.  Never  has  she  been  por- 
trayed on  canvas  as  by  Turner  and  his  successors  ; 
never  has  she  received  such  homage  in  song  as  that 
of  the  English  and  American  poets  from  the  time  of 
Wordsworth.  Two  significant  advantages  confirmed 
Wordsworth's  influence  :  first,  that  of  longevity, 
which,  in  spite  of  the  ancient  proverb,  is  the  best 
gift  of  the  gods  to  an  originative  leader  ;  second,  the 
fact  that,  with  brief  exceptions,  he  made  verse  his 
only  form  of  expression.  No  wonder  that  he  pro- 
duced an  "ampler  body  "of  good  poetry  —  and  of 
prosaic  verse  as  well  —  than  "  Burns,  or  Keats,  or 
Manzoni,  or  Heine."  But  in  this  country,  also,  the 
force  of  nature  has  been  sovereign,  since  Bryant 
first  gave  voice  to  the  spirit  of  the  glorious  forest 
and  waters  of  a  relatively  primeval  land.  During  an 
idyllic  yet  speculative  period,  the  maxim  that  "the 
proper  study  of  mankind  is  man  "  has  for  many  rea- 
sons been  almost  in  abeyance.  At  last  it  is  again 


A   LIFE-SCHOOL  DEMANDED  211 

evident  that  we  cannot  live  by  bread   alone,  even 
at  the  hands  of  the  great  mother.     There  Her  triumph 

,  ,  ,     r  ..  too  prolonged. 

is  a  longing  and  a  need  for  emotion  ex-  cp.   "  Poets 

m    m»-f        m  •  of  America": 

cited  by  action  and  life,  for  a  more  im-  PP.  464-466. 
passioned  and  dramatic  mode, — that  of  a  figure- 
school,  so  to  speak,  in  both  poesy  and  art.  Not  to 
"fresh  woods  and  pastures  new,"  but  to  human  life 
with  its  throes  and  passions  and  activity,  must  the 
coming  poet  look  for  the  inspirations  that  will  estab- 
lish his  name  and  fame. 

In  my  censure  of  didacticism  I  used  that  word  in 
the   usually   adopted   sense.      Its   radical  PhiiOSOphic 
meaning  is  not  to  be  dismissed  so  lightly.   ^heV 
If   there   is   a   base    didacticism  false   to 
beauty    and    essentially    commonplace,    there    is    a 
nobly    philosophic    strain    which    I    may   call    the 
poetry  of  wisdom.     There  is  an  imagination  of  the 
intellect,  and  its  utterance  is  of  a  very  high  order, 
—  often  the  prophecy  of  inspiration  itself. 

Were  this  not  so,  we  should  have  to  reverse  time's 
judgment  of  intellectually  poetic  masterpieces  from 
which  have  been  derived  the  wisdom  and  the  ru- 
brics of  many  lands.  Shall  we  rule  out  Ecciesiastes. 
the  lofty  voice  of  the  Preacher,  whose  lesson  that  all 
save  the  fear  of  God  is  vanity  has  been  reaffirmed 
by  a  cloud  of  witnesses,  down  to  the  chief  of  imagi- 
native homilists  in  our  own  time  ?  Whether  prose 
or  verse,  I  know  nothing  grander  than  Ecciesias- 
tes in  its  impassioned  survey  of  mortal  pain  and 


2 1 2  TRUTH 

pleasure,  its  estimate  of  failure  and  success  ;  none 
of  more  noble  sadness  ;  no  poem  working  more  in- 
domitably for  spiritual  illumination.  Shall  we  rule 

The  Grecian  out  t^ie  elegies  °f  Theogms  or  the  mystic 
speculations  of  Empedocles,  celebrant  of 
the  golden  age  and  declarer  of  the  unapproachable 
God  ?  And  who  would  lay  rude  hands  upon  the 
poet  who  concerned  himself  with  the  universe,  sur- 
passing all  other  Latins  in  intellectual  passion  and 
dignity  of  theme  ?  The  rugged  "  De  Rerum  Na- 
tura"  of  Lucretius  seems  to  me  as  much  greater 
Lucretius.  than  the  yEneids  as  fate  and  nature  are 
greater  than  the  world  known  in  that  day.  Whether 
his  science  was  false  or  true,  —  and  meanwhile  you 
know  that  the  atomic  theory  is  once  more  in  vogue, 
—  he  essayed  "no  middle  flight,"  but  soared  upon 
the  philosophy  of  Epicurus  to  proclaim  the  very 
nature  of  things  ;  meditating  which,  as  he  declared, 
the  terrors  of  the  mind  were  dispelled,  the  walls  of 
the  world  parted  asunder,  and  he  saw  things  "  in 
operation  throughout  the  whole  void."  What  shall 
Omar.  we  do  with  Omar  Khayyam,  at  least  with 

that  unique  paraphrase  of  his  "  Rubaiyat  "  which  has 
impressed  the  rarest  spirits  of  our  day,  and  has  so 
inspired  the  wondrous  pencil  of  Elihu  Vedder,  our 
The  wise  American  Blake  ?  And  what  of  "In  Me- 
o'u'r  recent"  °f  moriam  "  ?  The  flower  of  Tennyson's 
prime  is  distinctly  also  the  representative 
Victorian  poem.  It  transmits  the  most  character- 
istic religious  thought  of  our  intellectual  leaders  at 


THE  HIGHER  DIDACTICISM  213 

the  date  of  its  production.  We  have  no  modern 
work  more  profound  in  feeling,  more  chaste  in 
beauty,  and  none  so  rich  with  the  imaginative  phi- 
losophy of  the  higher  didacticism.  Browning's  pre- 
cepts, ratiocination,  morals,  are  usually  the  weightier 
matters  of  his  law.  Take  from  Emerson  and  Lowell 
their  sage  distinctions,  their  woof  of  shrewdest  wis- 
dom, and  you  find  these  so  closely  interwoven  with 
their  warp  of  beauty  that  the  cloth  of  gold  will  be 
ruined.  Like  Pope  and  Tennyson,  they  have  the 
gift  of  "  saying  things,"  and  in  such  wise  that  they 
add  to  the  precious  currency  of  English  discourse. 

The   mention   of   Pope   reminds   me   that   he   is 
the  traditional  exemplar  of  the  didactic  T 

Pope,  as  the 

heresy,  so  much  so  that  the  question  is  Ehneiish 
still  mooted  whether  he  was  a  poet  at  all.   moralist-p°ets- 
As  to  this,  one  can  give  only  his  own  impression, 
and   my   adverse   view   has    somewhat    changed,  - 
possibly  because   we   grow   more   sententious   with 
advancing   years.     Considering   the   man  The  question 

....          .  T       i    •     i  concerning  his 

with  his  time,  I  think  Pope  was  a  poet  :  inherent  gift. 
one  whose  wit  and  reason  exceeded  his  lyrical  feel- 
ing, but  still  a  poet  of  no  mean  degree.  Assuredly 
he  was  a  force  in  his  century,  and  one  not  even  then 
wholly  spent.  His  didacticism  was  inherent  in  the 
stiff,  vicious,  Gallic  drum-beat  of  his  artificial  style 
—  so  falsely  called  "  classical,"  so  opposed  to  the 
true  and  live  method  of  the  antique  —  rather  than 
in  his  genius  and  quality.  It  is  impossible  that  one 
with  so  marked  a  poetic  temperament,  and  using 


214  TRUTH 

verse  withal  as  almost  his  sole  mode  of  expression, 
should  not  have  been  a  poet.  In  the  manner  of  his 
time,  how  far  above  his  rivals  !  Every  active  liter- 
ary period  has  one  poet  at  least.  To  me  he  seems 
like  the  tree  which,  pressed  hard  about  by  rocks, 
adorns  them  and  struggles  into  growth  and  leafage. 
A  fashion  of  speech  mastered  him,  but  he  refined  it 
and  made  it  effective,  the  wonder  being  that  he  did 
so  much  with  it.  All  admit  that  Cowper  was  a  poet 
and  the  pioneer  of  a  noble  school.  But  he  was  as 
didactic  as  Pope  ;  his  vantage  lay  in  a  return  to 
natural  diction  and  flexible  rhythm.  A  free  vehicle 
of  expression  sets  free  the  imagination.  Again, 
there  are  forms  still  in  use,  and  natural,  as  we  say, 
to  the  genius  of  our  language,  in  which  Pope's  re- 
sources were  sufficient  for  the  display  of  lasting 
thought  and  emotion.  "  The  Universal  Prayer " 
and  "  The  Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul "  equal  the 
best  of  Cowper's  lyrics.  "  The  Rape  of  the  Lock," 
still  the  masterwork  of  patrician  verse,  shows  what 
its  author  could  do  with  a  subject  to  which  his  grace, 
wit,  and  spirit  were  exactly  suited.  The  passionate 
intensity  of  "  Eloisa  to  Abelard  "  lifts  that  epistle 
far  above  the  wonted  liberties  of  its  formal  verse. 
Looking  at  the  man,  Pope,  that  fiery,  heroic  little 
figure,  that  vital,  electric  spirit  pitiably  encaged,  — 
defying  and  conquering  his  foes,  loving,  hating, 
questioning,  worshipping,  —  I  see  the  poet.  How- 
ever, if  you  care  to  realize  how  much  more  differ- 
ence there  is  in  the  methods  than  in  the  contem- 


HUMOR— OUR  ENGLISH  TONGUE         2\$ 

plative  gifts  of  certain  bards,  amuse  yourselves  by 
translating    Pope,    Tennyson,    Emerson,  AutretempS) 
Browning,   into    one   another's   measures  autre" moeur8- 
and  styles,  and  you  will  find  the  result  suggestive. 

Three,  at  least,  of  these  poets  have  at  times  a 
delicious  humor  and  fancy,  as  in  "The  Humor  as  a 
Rape  of  the  Lock,"  "The  Talking  Oak,"  poetic element' 
"  Will  Waterproof's  Lyrical  Monologue,"  "  The  Pied 
Piper,"  etc.  Humor,  in  the  sense  of  fun,  is  doubt- 
less another  lyrical  heresy.  But  humor  is  the  over- 
flow of  genius,  —  the  humor  compounded  of  mirth 
and  pathos,  of  smiles  and  tears,  —  and  in  the  poems 
cited,  and  in  Thackeray's  ballads,  it  speaks  for  the 
universality  of  the  poet's  range.  While  certain 
notes  in  excess  are  fatal  to  song,  in  due  subordina- 
tion they  supply  a  needful  relief,  and  act  as  a  fillip 
to  the  zest  of  the  listener. 

In  speaking,  as  I  have,  of  measures  and  diction 
suited  to  the  English  language,  it  must  Eclectic 
be  with  reservation.     That  language  has  g,gj£hof  our 
advanced    of    late    so   rapidly   from    the  tongue- 
simple    to   the    complex,   that    it    seems    ready   to 
assimilate  whatever  is  most  of  worth  in  the  vocabu- 
laries and  forms  of  many  tongues.     In  Pope's  time 
it  had  thrown  away,  "  like   the   base  Indian,"  half 
the  riches  bequeathed  by  Chaucer  and  the  drama- 
tists ;  nevertheless,  an  age  of  asceticism  often  leads 
to  one  of  prodigal  vigor.     It  required  long  years  after 
Pope,  and  a  French  Revolution,  to  renew  the  afflu- 
ence of  English  letters,  but  if  the  process  was  slow 


2l6  TRUTH 

it  was  effectual.  Another  century  has  passed  ;  our 
language,  in  turn,  is  giving  increment  to  the  Conti- 
nental tongues,  and  the  need  of  an  artificial  Volapiik 
may  soon  disappear  before  this  eclectic  universality. 

The  highest  wisdom  —  that  of  ethics  —  seems 
Truth  of  closely  affiliated  with  poetic  truth.  A 
ethical  insight.  prosaic  morai  js  injurious  to  virtue,  by 

making  it  repulsive.  The  moment  goodness  be- 
comes tedious  and  unideal  in  a  work  of  art,  it  is  not 
real  goodness  ;  the  would-be  artist,  though  a  very 
saint,  has  mistaken  his  form  of  expression.  On  the 
other  hand,  extreme  beauty  and  power  in  a  poem  or 
picture  always  carry  a  moral :  they  are  inseparable 
from  a  certain  ethical  standard  ;  while  vice  suggests 
a  depravity.  Affected  conviction,  affection  of  any 
kind,  and  even  sincere  conviction  inartistically  set 
forth,  are  vices  in  themselves,  —  are  antagonistic  to 
truth.  But  the  cleverest  work,  if  openly  vicious, 
has  no  lasting  force.  A  meretricious  play,  after  the 
first  rush  of  the  baser  sort,  is  soon  performed  to 
empty  boxes.  Managers  know  this  to  be  so,  and 
what  is  the  secret  of  it  ?  Simply,  that  to  cater  to  a 
why  baseness  sensual  taste  incessant  novelty  is  required. 
"he'force  Vice  admits  of  no  repose;  its  votary  goes 
restlessly  from  one  pleasure  to  another. 
Thus  no  form  of  vicious  art  bears  much  repetition  : 
it  satiates  without  satisfying ;  besides,  any  one  who 
cares  for  art  at  all  has  some  sort  of  a  moral  stand- 
ard. He  violates  it  himself,  but  does  not  care  to  see 
it  violated  in  art  as  if  upon  principle. 


OF  ETHICS  217 

An  obtrusive  moral  in  poetic  form  is  a  fraud  on 
its  face,  and  outlawed  of  art.  But  that  all  Enduringpo_ 
great  poetry  is  essentially  ethical  is  plain  m^s'ToT 
from  any  consideration  of  Homer,  Dante,  good' 
and  the  best  dramatists  and  lyrists,  old  and  new. 
Even  Omar,  in  proud  recognition  of  the  immutabil- 
ity of  the  higher  powers,  chants  a  song  without  fear 
if  without  hope.  The  pagan  Lucretius,  confronting 
sublimity,  found  no  cause  to  fear  either  the  gods  or 
the  death  that  waits  for  all  things.  A  glimpse  of 
the  knowledge  which  is  divine,  an  approach  to  the 
infinite  which  makes  us  confess  that  "an  undevout 
astronomer  is  mad,"  inspire  the  "De  Rerum  Natura." 
The .  poet  sat  in  the  darkness  before  dawn.  He 
would  report  no  vision  which  he  did  not  see.  Like 
Fitzgerald's  Omar  he  seems  to  confess,  with  the 
epicureanism  that  after  all  is  but  inverted  stoicism, 
and  with  unfaltering  truth, — 

"  Up  from  Earth's  Centre  through  the  Seventh  Gate 
I  rose,  and  on  the  Throne  of  Saturn  sate, 

And  many  a  Knot  unravell'd  by  the  Road ; 
But  not  the  Master-knot  of  Human  Fate." 

Poetry,  in  short,  as  an  ethical  force,  may  be  either 
iconoclastic   or   constructive,  nor  dare   I 

A  noble  scep- 

say  that  the  latter  attribute  is  the  greater,  ticisni- 
for  the  site  must  be  cleared  before  a  new  edifice  can 
be  raised.  Herein  consists  the  moral  integrity  of 
Lucretius  and  Omar.  They  rebelled  against  the 
superstitions  of  their  periods.  Better  a  self-respect- 
ing confession  of  ignorance,  a  waiting  for  some  voice 


218  TRUTH 

from  out  the  void,  than  a  bowing  down  to  stone 
images  or  reverence  for  a  false  prophet.  Critics  are 
still  to  be  found  who  look  upon  a  modern  poet  —  in 
his  lifetime  almost  an  outlaw  —  as  a  splendid  lyrical 
genius  gone  far  astray.  Of  course  I  refer  to  Shelley. 
Percy  Bysshe  The  world  is  slowly  learning  that  Shel- 
sheifey.  ley' s  office,  if  any  need  be  ascribed  to  him 
save  that  of  charming  the  afterworld  with  song,  was 
ethical.  As  an  iconoclast,  he  rebelled  against  tyr- 
anny and  dogma.  His  mistakes  were  those  of  poetic 
youth  and  temperament,  and  he  grew  in  love,  jus- 
tice, pity,  according  to  his  light.  He  groped  in 
search  of  some  basis  for  construction,  but  died  in 
The  false  what  was  still  his  formative  period.  Yet 

standards  of 

criticism  ap-      we  see  sage  and  elderly  moralists  apply- 

plied  to  his  life  * 

and  works.  jng  to  Shelley  the  tests  of  their  own  ma- 
ture years  and  modern  enlightenment,  and  holding 
a  sensitive  and  passionate  youth  to  account  as  if  he 
were  an  aged  philosopher.1  Even  Matthew  Arnold, 
despite  his  fine  recognition  of  that  transcendent  lyr- 
ist, did  not  quite  avoid  this  attitude.  Professor 
Shairp  assumed  it  altogether.  With  respect  to  the 
poetry  of  nature,  I  can  refer  you  to  no  more  sugges- 

1  Some  reviewer,  alluding  to  the  discussion  of  Hawthorne's  career, 
has  said  with  much  intelligence  that  the  romancer  was  first  of  all,  by 
choice  and  genius,  an  artist,  and  that  his  politics,  ethics,  etc.,  are  mat- 
ters quite  subordinate  in  any  estimate  of  him.  It  is  well,  then,  to  aver 
that  Shelley  was,  before  all  else  and  marvellously,  &poet,  and  that  the 
rapid  experiences  of  his  young  life  —  which  ended,  indeed,,  before  the 
age  of  mature  convictions  —  are  of  importance  merely  as  they  affected 
what  we  have  inherited  of  his  beautiful  lyric  and  dramatic  creations. 


OF  ICONOCLASM  219 

tive  critic,  for  he  was  a  Wordsworthian,  and  all  his 
discourse  leads  up  to  Wordsworth  as  the  greatest, 
because  the  most  contemplative,  of  nineteenth-cen- 
tury poets.  Otherwise  he  was  an  extreme  type  of 
the  class  which  Arnold  had  in  mind  when  he  said, 
"  We  must  be  on  our  guard  against  the  Wordsworth- 
ians,  if  we  want  to  secure  for  Wordsworth  his  due 
rank  as  a  poet."  His  utter  failure  to  see  the  force 
of  a  blind  revolt  like  Shelley's,  in  the  evolution  of 
an  ultimately  high  morality,  was  inexcusable.  A 
more  striking  example  of  faulty  criticism  could 
hardly  be  given.  Shelley  is  not  to  be  measured  by 
his  conduct  of  life  nor  by  his  experimental  theories, 
but  rather,  as  Browning  estimates  him,  with  every 
allowance  for  his  conditions  and  by  his  highest  fac- 
ulty and  attainment. 

But  the  most  thoughtful  and  extended  of  rhyth- 
mical productions  in  the   purely  didactic  _ 

J  Poetic  truth, 

method  is  of  less  worth,  taken  as  poetry,  £osri?eato't'he 
than  any  lyrical  trifle  —  an  English  song  ^3-^ 
or  Irish  lilt,  it  may  be  —  that  is  spontane-  asinative« 
ous  and  has  quality.     The  disguises  of  the  common- 
place are  endless ;  we  are  always  meeting  the  old  foe 
with  a  new  face.     A  fashionable  diction,  tact,  taste, 
the  thought  and  manner  of  the  season,  set  them  off 
bravely ;  but  they  soon  will  be  flown  with  the  birds 
of   last   year's   nests.     Of   such  are  not  the  works 
whose  wisdom  is  imaginative,  whether  the  result  of 
intuition  or  reflection,  or  of  both  combined.     These 


220  TRUTH 

"  large  utterances "  of  intellectual  and  moral  truth 
show  that  nothing  is  impossible,  no  domain  is  for- 
bidden, to  the  poet,  that  no  thought  or  fact  is  inca- 
pable of  ideal  treatment.  The  bard  may  proudly 
forego  the  office  of  the  lecturer,  such  as  that  exer- 
cised in  this  discourse,  which  is  by  intention  didac- 
tic and  plainly  inferior  to  any  fine  example  of  the 
but  aiert  in  art  to  which  its  comment  is  devoted.  Yet 

each  new  won- 

deriaud.  the  new  learning  doubtless  will  inspire 
more  of  our  expression  in  the  near  future,  since 
never  was  man  so  apt  in  translation  of  nature's  ora- 
cles, and  so  royally  vouchsafed  the  freedom  of  her 
laboratory,  as  in  this  age  of  physical  investigation. 
Accepting  the  omen,  we  make,  I  say,  another  claim 
for  the  absolute  liberty  of  art.  Like  Caspar  Becerra, 
the  artist  must  work  out  his  vision  in  the  fabric 
nearest  at  hand.  His  theme,  his  method,  shall  be 
his  own  :  always  with  the  passion  for  beauty,  always 
with  an  instinct  for  right.  No  effort  to  change  the 
natural  bent  of  genius  was  ever  quite  successful, 
though  such  an  effort  often  has  spoiled  a  poet  alto- 
gether. 

This  brave  freedom  alone  can  breed  in  a  poet  the 
The  oet's  catholicity  which  justifies  Keats'  phrase, 
fionofb?a^-  and  insures  for  his  work  the  fit  coherence 
teous  verity.  of  beauty  and  truth  The  lover  of  beauty, 

in  Emerson's  "  Each  and  All,"  marvels  at  the  deli- 
cate shells  upon  the  shore  :  — 

"  The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave 
Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave ; 


FREEDOM— BEAUTY  221 


"  I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 
I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home ; 
But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 
Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore, 
With  the  sun,  and  the  sand,  and  the  wild  uproar." 

Disappointed,  he  forswears  the  pursuit  of  beauty, 
and  declares :  — 

"  I  covet  truth ; 

Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat ; 
I  leave  it  behind  with  the  games  of  youth." 

But,  even  as  he  speaks,  the  ground-pine  curls  its 
pretty  wreath  beneath  his  feet,  "running  over  the 
club-moss  burrs  ;  "  he  scents  the  violet's  breath,  and 
therewithal 

"  Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 
Full  of  light  and  deity ; 

Beauty  through  my  senses  stole  ; 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole." 

This  recognition,  at  which  the  idealist  arrives,  of  the 
intertransmutations  of  beauty  and  truth,  Labor  est 

,   .      .       .  .       .  ,         etiam  ipsa  pie- 

is  a  kind  of  natural  piety,  and  renders  the  tas. 
labor  of  the  poet  or  other  "  artist  of  the  beautiful  " 
a  proper  form  of  worship.  His  heart  tells  him  that 
this  is  so :  it  is  lightest  when  he  has  worked  at  his 
craft  with  diligence  and  accomplishment ;  it  is  light 
with  a  happiness  which  the  religious  say  one  can 
know  only  by  experience.  The  piety  of  his  labor,  is 
not  yet  sufficiently  comprehended  ;  even  the  poet, 
having  listened  all  his  life  to  other  tests  of  sanctifi- 
cation,  often  mistrusts  his  own  conscience,  looks 


222  TRUTH 

upon  himself  as  out  of  the  fold,  and  is  sure  only 
that  he  must  "gang  his  ain  gait,"  however  much  he 
suffers  for  it  in  this  world  or  some  other. 

Thus  a  dividing  line  has  been  drawn  from  time 
Arcadian  non-  immemorial  betwixt  the  conventional  and 
conformity.  the  naturai  worshippers,  betwixt  the  stately 
kingdom  of  Philistia  and  the  wilding  vales  and 
copses  of  that  Arcadia  which  some  geographers  have 
named  Bohemia.  The  mistake  of  the  Arcadian  is 
that  he  virtually  accepts  a  standard  not  of  his  own 
establishment ;  he  is  impressed  by  a  traditional  con- 
ception of  his  Maker,  regards  it  as  fixed,  will  have 
none  of  it,  and  sheers  off  defiantly.  If  rich  and  his 
own  master,  he  becomes  a  pagan  virtuoso.  If  one  of 
the  struggling  children  of  art  and  toil,  then,  — 

"  Loving  Beauty,  and  by  chance 
Too  poor  to  make  her  all  in  all, 
He  spurns  her  half-way  maintenance, 
And  lets  things  mingle  as  they  fall." 

This  is  the  way  in  Arcadia,  and  it  has  its  pains  and 
charm,  —  as  I  well  know,  having  journeyed  many 
seasons  in  that  happy-go-lucky  land  of  sun  and 
shower,  and  still  holding  a  key  to  one  of  its  entrance- 
gates.  Its  citizenship  is  not  to  be  shaken  off,  even 
though  one  becomes  naturalized  elsewhere. 

Now  the  artist  not  only  has  a  right,  but  it  is  his 
The  God  of  duty,  to  indulge  an  anthropomorphism  of 

truth  is  no  less  J 

the  God  of        his  own.      In   his  conception   the  divine 

beauty,  joy, 

and  song.  power  must  be  the  supreme  poet,  the 
matchless  artist,  not  only  the  transcendency,  but  the 


THE  ARTISTS  GOD  223 

immanence  of  all  that  is  adorable  in  thought,  feel- 
ing, and  appearance.  Grant  that  the  Creator  is  the 
founder  of  rites  and  institutes  and  dignities  ;  yet  for 
the  idealist  he  conceived  the  sunrise  and  moonrise, 
the  sounds  that  ravish,  the  outlines  that  enchant 
and  sway.  He  sets  the  colors  upon  the  easel,  the 
harp  and  viol  are  his  invention,  he  is  the  model  and 
the  clay,  his  voice  is  in  the  story  and  the  song. 
The  love  and  the  beauty  of  woman,  the  comradeship 
of  man,  the  joy  of  student-life,  the  mimic  life  of  the 
drama  as  much  as  the  tragedy  and  comedy  of  the 
living  world,  have  their  sources  in  his  nature ;  nor 
only  gravity  and  knowledge,  but  also  irony  and  wit 
and  mirth.  Arcady  is  a  garden  of  his  devising.  As 
far  as  the  poet,  the  artist,  is  creative,  he  becomes 
a  sharer  of  the  divine  imagination  and  power,  and 
even  of  the  divine  responsibility. 


VII. 

IMAGINATION. 

IT  is  worth  while  to  reflect  for  a  moment  upon  the 
characteristics  of   recent  poetry.      Take,  QuaHtie«of 
for  example,  the  verse  of   our  language  modern  verse- 
produced  during  the  laureateship  of  Tennyson,  and 
since  the  rise,  let  us  say,  of   Longfellow  and   his 
American  compeers. 

In  much  of  this  composition  you  detect  an  artistic 
convergence  of  form,  sound,  and  color  ;  a  nice  ad- 
justment of  parts,  a  sense  of  craftsman-  its  conscious 

refinement  and 

ship,  quite  unusual  in  the  impetuous  vocabulary. 
Georgian  revival,  —  certainly  not  displayed  by  any 
poets  of  that  time  except  those  among  whom  Keats 
was  the  paragon  and  Leigh  Hunt  the  propagan- 
dist. You  find  a  vocabulary  far  more  elaborate  than 
that  from  which  Keats  wrought  his  simple  and 
perfected  beauty.  The  conscious  refinement  of  our 
minor  lyrists  is  in  strong  contrast  with  the  primitive 
method  of  their  romantic  predecessors.  Some  of 
our  verse,  from  "  Woodnotes  "  and  "  In  Memoriam  " 
and  "  Ferishtah's  Fancies "  down,  is  charged  with 
wholesome  and  often  subtile  thought.  There  has 
been  a  marked  idyllic  picturesqueness,  besides  a 
variety  of  classical  and  Preraphaelite  experiments, 


226  IMA  GIN  A  TION 


and  a  good  deal  of  genuine  and  tender  feeling.  Our 
leaders  have  been  noted  for  taste  or  thought  or  con- 
viction,—  often  for  these  traits  combined.  But  we 
obtain  our  average  impression  of  a  literary  era  from 
cp  "Victorian  t^ie  temPer  °f  its  writers  at  large.  Of  late 
f7°e.tsa'n^  p-  our  clever  artists  in  verse  —  for  such  they 
America  °f:  pp.  are  —  seem  with  a  few  exceptions  indif- 
458-460.  ferent  to  thought  and  feeling,  and  avoid 
taking  their  office  seriously.  A  vogue  of  light  and 
troubadour  verse-making  has  come,  and  now  is  going 
as  it  came.  Every  possible  mode  of  artisanship  has 
been  tried  in  turn.  The  like  conditions  prevail  upon 
the  Continent,  at  least  as  far  as  France  is  con- 
cerned ;  in  fact,  the  caprices  of  our  minor  minstrelsy 
have  been  largely  the  outcome  of  a  new  literary 
Gallomania. 

Now,  I  think  you  will  feel  that  there  is  something 
unsatisfactory,  something  much  less  sat- 

Something  * 

more  is  needed  isfactory  than  what  we  find  in  the  little 

to  confer  J 

prose  masterpieces  of  the  new  American 
school ;  that  from  the  mass  of  all  this  rhythmical 
work  the  higher  standard  of  poetry  could  scarcely 
be  derived.  To  be  sure,  it  is  the  providential  wont 
of  youth  to  be  impressed  by  the  latest  models,  to 
catch  the  note  of  its  own  morntime.  Many  know 
the  later  favorites  by  heart,  yet  perhaps  have  never 
read  an  English  classic.  We  hear  them  say,  "  Who 
reads  Milton  now,  or  Byron,  or  Coleridge  ? "  It  is 
just  as  well.  Otherwise  a  new  voice  might  not  be 
welcomed,  —  would  have  less  chance  to  gain  a  hear- 


RECENT  CONDITIONS  22/ 

ing.  Yet  I  think  that  even  the  younger  generation 
will  agree  with  me  that  there  are  lacking  qualities 
to  give  distinction  to  poetry  as  the  most  impressive 
literature  of  our  time  ;  qualities  for  want  of  which  it 
is  not  now  the  chief  force,  but  is  compelled  to  yield 
its  eminence  to  other  forms  of  composition,  espe- 
cially to  prose  fiction,  realistic  or  romantic,  and  to 
the  literature  of  scientific  research. 

If  you  compare  our  recent  poetry,  grade  for  grade, 
with  the  Elizabethan  or  the  Georgian,  I  "The two 

....,,  ,.  ,         middle  pillars 

think  you   will  quickly   realize   that    the  upon  which 

3  J  the  house 

characteristics  which  alone  can  confer  the  stood." 
distinction  of  which  I  speak  are  those  which  we  call 
Imagination  and  Passion.  Poetry  does  not  seem  to 
me  very  great,  very  forceful,  unless  it  is  either 
imaginative  or  impassioned,  or  both  ;  and  in  sooth, 
if  it  is  the  one,  it  is  very  apt  to  be  the  other. 

The  younger  lyrists  and  idylists,  when  finding 
little  to  evoke  these  qualities,  have  done  their  best 
without  them.  Credit  is  due  to  our  craftsmen  for 
what  has  been  called  "  a  finer  art  in  our  day."  It  is 
wiser,  of  course,  to  succeed  within  obvious  limits 
than  to  flounder  ambitiously  outside  them.  But  the 
note  of  spontaneity  is  lost.  Moreover,  extreme  fin- 
ish, adroitness,  graces,  do  not  inevitably  betoken  the 
glow  of  imaginative  conception,  the  ecstasy  of  high 
resolve. 

If  anything  great  has  been  achieved  without  exer- 
cise of  the  imagination,  I  do  not  know  of  it.  I  am 


228  IMAGINATION 


referring  to  striking  productions  and  achievements, 
Anticipate  not  to  acts  of  virtue.  Nevertheless,  at 

qusedam 

deorum.  the  last  analysis,  it  might  be  found  that 
imagination  has  impelled  even  the  saints  and  martyrs 
of  humanity. 

Imagination  is  the  creative  origin  of  what  is  fine, 
not  in  art  and  song  alone,  but  also  in  all  forms  of 
action,  —  in  campaigns,  civil  triumphs,  material 
conquest.  I  have  mentioned  its  indispensability  to 
the  scientists.  It  takes,  they  surmise,  four  hundred 
and  ninety  years  for  the  light  of  Rigel  to  visit  us. 
Modern  imagination  goes  in  a  second  to  the  dark- 
ness beyond  the  utmost  star,  speculates  whether  the 
ether  itself  may  not  have  a  limiting  surface,  is  pre- 
pared to  see  at  any  time  a  new  universe  come  sail- 
ing from  the  outer  void,  or  to  discover  a  universe 
within  our  own  under  absolutely  novel  conditions. 
It  posits  molecules,  atomic  rings  ;  it  wreaks  itself 
upon  the  ultimate  secrets  of  existence.  But  in  the 
practical  world  our  men  of  action  are  equally,  though 
often  unwittingly,  possessed  by  it.  The  imagination 
of  inventors,  organizers,  merchant  princes,  railway 
kings,  is  conceptive  and  strenuous.  It  bridges 
rivers,  tunnels  mountains,  makes  an  ocean-ferry,  de- 
velops the  forces  of  vapor  and  electricity; and  carries 
each  to  swift  utility  ;  is  already  picturing  an  empery 
of  the  air,  and  doubtless  sighs  that  its  tangible 
franchise  is  restricted  to  one  humble  planet. 

If  the  triumphs  of  the  applied  imagination  have 
more  and  more  engrossed  public  attention,  it  must 


IT  MOVES   THE    WORLD  229 

be  remembered  that  its  exhibitors,  accumulating 
wealth,  promote  the  future  structures  of  TheexecutiVe 
the  artist  and  poet.  In  the  Old  World  Imasinati°n- 
this  has  been  accomplished  through  the  instrumen- 
tality of  central  governments.  In  a  democracy  the 
•  individual  imagination  has  the  liberty,  the  duty,  of 
free  play  and  achievement.  Therefore,  we  say  that 
in  this  matter  our  republicanism  is  on  trial ;  that, 
with  a  forecast  more  exultant,  as  it  is  with  respect 
to  our  own  future,  than  that  of  any  people  on  earth, 
our  theory  is  wrong  unless  through  private  impulse 
American  foundations  in  art,  learning,  humanity, 
are  not  even  more  continuous  and  munificent  than 
those  resulting  in  other  countries  from  governmental 
promotion. 

As   for  the  poetic  imagination,  as   distinguished 
from  that  of  the  man  of  affairs,  if  it  can- 

Imagination  of 

not  parcel  out  the  earth,  it  can  enable  us  the  poet- 
to  "get  along  just  as  well  without  it,"  —  and  this  by 
furnishing  a  substitute  at  will.  There  is  no  state- 
ment of  its  magic  so  apt  as  that  of  our  master 
magician.  It  "bodies  forth  the  forms  of  things 
unknown,"  and  through  the  poet's  pen 

"  Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 

I  seldom  refer  to  Shakespeare  in  these  lectures, 
since  we  all  instinctively  resort  to  him  as  to  nature 
itself ;  his  text  being  not  only  the  chief  Shakespeare 

the  preeminent 

illustration  of  each  phrase  that  may  arise,  exemplar, 
but  also,  like  nature,  presenting  all  phases  in  combi- 


230  IMA  GIN  A  TION 


nation.  It  displays  more  of  clear  and  various  beauty, 
more  insight,  surer  descriptive  touches,  —  above  all, 
more  human  life,  —  than  that  of  any  other  poet; 
yes,  and  more  art,  in  spite  of  a  certain  constructive 
disdain,  —  the  free  and  prodigal  art  that  is  like 
nature's  own.  Thus  he  seems  to  require  our  whole 
attention  or  none,  and  it  is  as  well  to  illustrate  a 
special  quality  by  some  poet  more  dependent  upon 
it.  Yet  if  there  is  one  gift  which  sets  Shakespeare 
at  a  distance  even  from  those  who  approach  him  on 
one  or  another  side,  it  is  that  of  his  imagination. 
As  he  is  the  chief  of  poets,  we  infer  that  the  faculty 
in  which  he  is  supereminent  must  be  the  greatest 
of  poetic  endowments.  Yes  :  in  his  wonderland,  as 
elsewhere,  imagination  is  king. 

There  is  little  doubt  concerning  the  hold  of 
Shakespeare  upon  future  ages.  I  have  sometimes 
"Not  of  an  debated  whether,  in  the  change  of  dra- 
tmie."u  matic  ideals  and  of  methods  in  life  and 

thought,  he  may  not  become  outworn  and  alien. 
But  the  purely  creative  quality  of  his  imagination 
renders  it  likely  that  its  structures  will  endure.  Pre- 
historic Hellas  is  far  removed  from  our  experience  ; 
yet  Homer,  by  force  of  a  less  affluent  imagination, 
is  a  universal  poet  to-day,  —  to-day,  when  there  is 
scarcely  a  law  of  physics  or  of  art  familiar  to  us  that 
was  not  unknown  to  Homer's  world.  Shakespeare's 
imagination  is  still  more  independent  of  discovery, 
place,  or  time.  It  is  neither  early  nor  late,  anti- 
quated nor  modern  ;  or,  rather,  it  is  always  modern 


NATURE   OF  THIS  FACULTY  231 

and  abiding.  The  beings  which  he  creates,  if  sud- 
denly transferred  to  our  conditions,  would  make 
themselves  at  home.  His  land  is  one  wherein  the 
types  of  all  ages  meet  and  are  contemporary.  He 
created  beings,  and  took  circumstances  as  he  found 
them  ;  that  is,  as  his  knowledge  enabled  him  to  con- 
ceive of  them  at  the  time.  The  garb  and  manners 
of  his  personages  were  also  a  secondary  matter. 
Each  successive  generation  makes  the  acquaintance 
of  these  creatures,  and  troubles  itself  little  about 
their  fashions  and  acquirements.  Knowledge  is  pro- 
gressive, communicable :  the  types  of  soul  are  con- 
stant, and  are  sufficient  in  themselves. 

It  does  no  harm,  as  I  said  at  the  outset  of  this 
course,  for  the  most  advanced  audience  to  go  back 
now  and  then  to  the  primer  of  art,  — to  think  upon 
the  meaning  of  an  elementary  term.  Nor  is  it  an 
easy  thing  to  formulate  clear  statements  of  qualities 
which  we  instantly  recognize  or  miss  in  any  human 
production,  and  for  which  we  have  a  ready,  a  tradi- 
tional, nomenclature.  So,  then,  what  is  the  artistic 
imagination,  that  of  one  who  expresses  his  concep- 
tions in  form  or  language  ?  I  should  call  Definition  Of 
it  a  faculty  of  conceiving  things  according  imagination- 
to  their  actualities  or  possibilities,  —  that  is,  as  they 
are  or  may  be ;  of  conceiving  them  clearly ;  of  seeing 
with  the  eyes  closed,  and  hearing  with  the  ears 
sealed,  and  vividly  feeling,  things  which  exist  only 
through  the  will  of  the  artist's  genius.  Not  only  of 


232  IMA  GIN  A  TION 


conceiving  these,  but  of  holding  one's  conceptions 
so  well  in  mind  as  to  express  them,  —  to  copy  them, 
—  in  actual  language  or  form. 

The  strength  of  the  imagination  is  proportioned, 
HOW  to  gauge    in  fact,  to  its  definiteness,  and  also  to  the 

its  strength.  r   .,  .  ,     . 

stress  of  its  continuance,  —  of  the  memory 
which  prolongs  its  utilization.  Every  one  has  more 
or  less  of  this  ideal  faculty.  The  naturalness  of 
children  enables  us  to  judge  of  their  respective 
allotments.  A  mother  knows  which  of  her  brood  is 
the  imaginative  one.  She  realizes  that  it  has  a  rare 
endowment,  yet  one  as  perilous  as  "the  fatal  gift  of 
beauty."  Her  pride,  her  solicitude,  are  equally  cen- 
tred in  that  child.  Now  the  clearer  and  more  self- 
retentive  this  faculty,  the  more  decided  the  ability 
of  one  in  whom  it  reaches  the  grade  at  which  he 
may  be  a  designer,  an  artist,  or  a  poet. 

Let  us  see.     Most  of  us  have  a  sense  of  music. 
clearness  and    Tunes  of  our  own  "  beat  time  to  nothing  " 

retention.  jn  the    head         We    can    retain    the    theme, 

or  opening  phrase,  at  least,  of  a  new  composition 
that  pleases  us.  But  the  musician,  the  man  of  gen- 
ius, is  haunted  with  unbidden  harmonies ;  besides, 
after  hearing  a  difficult  and  prolonged  piece,  he  holds 
it  in  memory,  perhaps  can  repeat  it,  —  as  when  a 
Von  Biilow  repeats  offhand  an  entire  composition  by 
Liszt.  Moreover,  his  mind  definitely  hears  its  own 
imaginings ;  otherwise  the  sonata,  the  opera,  will  be 
confused  and  inferior.  Again  :  most  of  us,  especially 
when  nervous  or  half  asleep,  find  the  "  eyes  make 


OUR  DEFINITION  ILLUSTRATED          233 

pictures  when  they  are  shut."  Faces  come  and  go, 
or  change  with  startling  vividness.  The  face  that 
comes  to  a  born  painter  does  not  instantly  go  ;  that 
of  an  angel  is  not  capriciously  transformed  to  some- 
thing imp-like.  He  sees  it  in  such  wise  that  he 
retains  it  and  can  put  it  on  his  canvas.  He  has  the 
clear-seeing,  the  sure-holding,  gift  which  alone  is 
creative.  It  is  the  same  with  the  landscape-painter, 
the  sculptor,  the  architect.  Artistic  ability  is  coor- 
dinate with  the  clearness  and  staying-power  of  the 
imagination. 

More  than  one  painter  has  declared  that  when  a 
sitter  was  no  longer  before  him,  he  could  Inthemind.s 
still  lift  his  eyes,  and  see  the  sitter's  im-  eye> 
age,  and  go  on  copying  it  as  before.  Often,  too,  the 
great  painter  copies  better  from  some  conception  of 
his  own  brain  than  from  actual  nature.  His  mind's 
eye  is  surer  than  his  body's.  Blake  wrote  :  "  Men 
think  they  can  copy  Nature  as  correctly  as  I  copy 
imagination.  This  they  will  find  impossible."  And 
again,  "Why  are  copies  of  Nature  incorrect,  while 
copies  of  imagination  are  correct  ?  This  is  manifest 
to  all."  Of  course  this  statement  is  debatable ;  but 
for  its  philosophy,  and  for  illustrations  alike  of  the 
definite  and  the  sublime,  there  is  nothing  later  than 
Michelangelo  to  which  one  refers  more  profitably 
than  to  the  life  and  letters,  and  to  the  titanic  yet 
clear  and  beautiful  designs,  of  the  inspired  "This  bodiless 
draughtsman  William  Blake.  Did  he  see  creation-" 
his  visions  ?  Undeniably.  Did  he  call  them  into 


234  IMA  GIN  A  TION 


absolute  existence  ?  Sometimes  I  think  he  did  ;  that 
all  soul  is  endowed  with  the  divine  power  of  creation 
in  the  concrete.  If  so,  man  will  realize  it  in  due 
time.  The  poetry  of  Blake,  prophetic  and  other- 
wise, must  be  read  with  discrimination,  for  his  lin- 
guistic execution  was  less  assured  than  that  of  his 
brush  and  graver  ;  his  imagination  as  a  painter,  and 
his  art-maxims,  were  of  the  high  order,  but  his  work 
as  a  poet  was  usually  rhapsodical  and  ill-defined. 
But,  as  I  have  said,  the  strength  and  beauty  of 
man's  poetry  depend  chiefly  upon  the 


Theconce 

tion  definite,      definiteness  of  his  mental  vision.     I  once 

knew  a  poet  of  genuine  gifts  who  did  not  always 
"  beat  his  music  out."  When  I  objected  to  a  feeble, 
indistinct  conception  in  one  of  his  idyls,  "Look 
you,"  said  he,  "  I  see  that  just  as  clearly  as  you  do  ; 
it  takes  hold  of  me,  but  I  haven't"  (he  chose  to  say) 
"your  knack  of  definite  expression."  To  which  I 
rejoined  :  "  Not  so.  If  you  saw  it  clearly  you  would 
express  it,  for  you  have  a  better  vocabulary  at  your 
command  than  I  possess.  Look  out  of  the  window, 
at  that  building  across  the  street.  Now  let  us  sit 
down,  and  see  who  can  make  the  best  picture  of  it 
in  fifteen  lines  of  blank  verse  —  you  or  I."  After  a 
while  our  trial  was  completed.  His  verse,  as  I  had 
expected,  was  more  faithful  and  expressive  than 
mine,  was  apter  in  word  and  outline.  It  reinforced 
my  claim.  "There,"  said  I,  "if  you  saw  the  con- 
ception of  your  other  poem  as  plainly  as  you  see 
that  ordinary  building,  you  would  convey  it  defi- 


TRUE  AND  FALSE   CONCEPTIONS         235 

nitely.  You  would  not  be  confused  and  obscure,  for 
you  have  the  power  to  express  what  your  mind  really 
pictures." 

The  true  poet,  said  Joubert,  "  has  a  mind  full  of 
very  clear  images,  while  ours  is  only  filled  conceptive 

.   .  ,.  ,     ,  •     .•  >>      TIT  faculty  of  the 

with  confused  descriptions.      Now,  vague-  true  poet, 
ness  of  impression  engenders  a  kind  of  excitement 
in  which  a  neophyte  fancies  that  his  gift  is  particu- 
larly active.     He  mistakes  the  wish  to  create  for  the 
creative  power.     Hence  much  spasmodic  poetry,  full 
of  rhetoric  and  ejaculations,  sound  and  empty  fury ; 
hence  the  gasps  which  indicate  that  vision  and  utter- 
ance are  impeded,  the  contortions  without  the  inspi- 
ration.    Hence,  also,  the  "  fatal  facility,"   pSeudo-insPi- 
the  babble  of  those  who  write  with  ease  r 
and   magnify  their  office.     The   impassioned    artist 
also  dashes  off  his  work,  but  his  need  for  absolute 
expression  makes  the  final  execution  as  difficult  as  it 
is  noble.     Another  class,  equipped  with  taste   and 
judgment,  but  lacking  imagination,  proffer  as  a  sub- 
stitute beautiful  and  recondite  materials   gathered 
here  and  there.     Southey's  work  is  an  example  of 
this  process,  and  that  of  the  popular  and  scholarly 
author  of  "The  Light  of  Asia"  is  not  free  from  it ; 
indeed,  you  see  it  everywhere  in  the  verse  of  the 
minor  art -school,  and  even  in  Tennyson's  and  Long- 
fellow's early  poems.     But  the  chief  vice  The  turbid 
of   many  writers    is   obscure   expression.   shoah 
Their    seeming   depth   is    often    mere    turbidness, 
though  it  is  true  that  thought  may  be  so  analytic 


236  IMAGINATION 


that  its  expression  must  be  novel  and  difficult. 
Commonplace  thought  and  verse,  however  clear,  cer- 
tainly are  not  greater  than  Browning's,  but  as  a  rule 
the  better  the  poet  the  more  intelligible.  There  are 
no  stronger  conceptions  than  those  of  the  Book  of 
Job,  of  Isaiah,  Homer,  Shakespeare,  nor  are  there 
any  more  patent  in  their  simplicity  to  the  common 
understanding. 

The  imagination  in  literature  is  not  confined  to 
Quality,  not  that  which  deals  with  the  weird  or  super- 
human. It  is  true  that,  for  convenience' 
sake,  the  selections  classed  in  the  best  of  our  antho- 
logies as  "  Poems  of  the  Imagination  "  consist  wholly 
of  verse  relative  to  nymphs,  fairies,  sprites,  appari- 
tions, and  the  like.  Although  this  justly  includes 
"Comus"  and  "The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner," 
there  is  more  fantasy  than  imagination  in  other 
pieces,  —  in  such  a  piece,  for  instance,  as  "  The  Cul- 
prit Fay."  No  one  knows  better  than  the  critical 
editor  of  "The  Household  Book  of  Poetry"  that 
there  is  more  of  the  high  imaginative  element  in 
brief  touches,  such  as  Wordsworth's 

"  The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 

The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream,  —  " 

or  Shakespeare's 

"  Light  thickens,  and  the  crow 
Makes  wing  to  the  rooky  wood,  —  " 

or  Bryant's  path  of  the  waterfowl,  through 


HEIGHT—  INVENTION  237 

"  the  desert  and  illimitable  air, 
Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost,  —  " 

or  Stoddard's  vanished  city  of  the  waste, — 

"Gone  like  a  wind  that  blew 
A  thousand  years  ago,  —  " 

and  countless  other  passages  as  effective,  than  in 
the  whole  of  Drake's  "  Culprit  Fay,"  that  being  emi- 
nently a  poem  of  fancy  from  beginning  to  end. 

But    the   imagination    is    manifold    and   various. 
Among    its   offices,  though  often  not   as  inventive  and 

,  .     .  constructive 

the  most  poetic,  may  be  counted  mven-  power, 
tion  and  construction.  These,  with  characterization, 
are  indeed  the  chief  functions  of  the  novelist.  But 
the  epic  narratives  have  been  each  a  growth,  not  a 
sudden  formation,  and  the  effective  plots  of  the 
grand  dramas  —  of  Shakespeare's,  for  example  — 
have  mostly  been  found  and  utilized,  rather  than 
newly  invented.  "  The  Princess,"  "  Aurora  Leigh," 
and  "Lucile"  are  almost  the  only  successful  modern 
instances  of  metrical  tale-invention,  and  the  last  two 
are  really  novels  in  verse.  The  epic  and  dramatic 
poets  give  imagination  play  in  depicting  the  event ; 
the  former,  as  Goethe  writes  to  Schiller,  conceiving 
it  "  as  belonging  completely  to  the  past,"  and  the 
latter  "  as  belonging  completely  to  the  present." 
But  neither  has  occasion  to  originate  his  story ;  his 
concern  is  with  its  ideal  reconstruction. 

The  imagination,  however,  is  purely  creative  in 
the  work  to  which  I  have  just  said  that  it  is  not  re- 


238  IMA  GINA  TION 


stricted,  namely,  the  conception  of  beings  not  drawn 
The  peopled     from    experience,   to  whom  it   alone  can 

wonderland 

of  song.  give   an  existence   that  is  wondrous  yet 

seemingly  not  out  of  nature.  Such  are  the  forms 
which  Shakespeare  called  "from  the  vasty  deep": 
the  Weird  Sisters,  the  greenwood  sprites,  the  haunt- 
ed-island  progeny  of  earth  and  air.  Such  are  those 
quite  differing  creations,  Goethe's  mocking  fiend 
and  the  Mephistophilis  of  Marlowe's  "  Faustus." 
Milton's  Satan,  the  grandest  of  imaginary  person- 
ages, does  not  seem  to  belong  to  the  supramortal 
class  ;  he  is  the  more  sublime  because,  though  scal- 
ing heaven  and  defying  the  Almighty,  he  is  so  un- 
mistakably human.  Shakespeare  is  not  strong  in 
the  imaginative  construction  of  many  of  his  plays, 
at  least  not  in  the  artistic  sense,  —  with  respect  to 
that  the  "  CEdipus  at  Colonos  "  is  a  masterpiece,  — 
but  he  very  safely  left  them  to  construct  themselves. 
In  the  conception  of  human  characters,  and  of  their 
thoughts  and  feelings,  he  is  still  sovereign  of  im- 
agination's world.  In  modern  times  the  halls  of 
Wonder  have  been  trodden  by  Blake  and  Coleridge 
Coleridge.  and  Rossetti.  The  marvellous  "  Rime," 
with  its  ghostly  crew,  its  spectral  seas,  its  transfor- 
mation of  the  elements,  is  pure  and  high-sustained 
imagination.  In  "  Christabel  "  both  the  terror  and 
the  loveliness  are  haunting.  That  beauteous  frag- 
ment was  so  potent  with  the  romanticists  that  Scott 
formed  his  lyrical  method,  that  of  "The  Lay  of  the 
Last  Minstrel,"  upon  it,  and  Byron  quickly  yielded 


WONDER  —  SUGGESTIVENESS  239 

to  its  spell.  But  Coleridge's  creative  mood  was  as 
brief  as  it  was  enrapturing.  From  his  twenty-sixth 
to  his  twenty-eighth  year  he  blazed  out  like  Tycho 
Brahe's  star,  then  sank  his  light  in  metaphysics, 
exhibiting  little  thenceforth  of  worth  to  literature 
except  a  criticism  of  poets  and  dramatists  that  in  its 
way  was  luminous  and  constructive. 

The  poet  often  conveys  a  whole  picture  by  a 
single  imaginative  touch.  A  desert  scene  suggestiveness. 
by  G6rome  would  give  us  little  more  than  we  con- 
ceive from  Landor's  suggestive  detail  — 

"  And  hoofless  camels  in  long  single  line 

Stalk  slow,  with  foreheads  level  to  the  sky." 

This  force  of  suggestion  is  nevertheless  highly 
effective  in  painting,  as  where  the  shadow  of  the 
cross  implies  the  crucifixion,  or  where  the  cloud- 
phantoms  seen  by  Dore's  "  Wandering  Jew  "  exhibit 
it ;  and  as  when,  in  the  same  artist's  designs  for 
Don  Quixote,  we  see  visions  with  the  mad  knight's 
eyes.  Of  a  kindred  nature  is  the  previ-  Prevision. 
sion,  the  event  forestalled,  of  a  single  word  or 
phrase.  Leigh  Hunt  cited  the  line  from  Keats' 
"  Isabella,"  "  So  the  two  brothers  and  their  mur- 
dered man," — the  victim,  then  journeying  with  his 
future  slayers,  being  already  dead  in  their  intention. 
A  striking  instance  of  the  swift-flashing  imagination 
is  in  a  stanza  from  Stoddard's  Horatian  ode  upon 
the  funeral  of  Lincoln  :  — 

"  The  time,  the  place,  the  stealing  shape, 
The  coward  shot,  the  swift  escape, 
The  wife,  the  ividrnv's  scream." 


240  IMA  GIN  A  TION 


What  I  may  call  the  constant,  the  habitual,  im- 
imaginative  agination  of  a  true  poet  is  shown  by  his 
instinct  for  words,  —  those  keys  which  all 
may  clatter,  and  which  yield  their  music  to  so  few. 
He  finds  the  inevitable  word  or  phrase,  unfound 
before,  and  it  becomes  classical  in  a  moment.  The 
power  of  words  and  the  gift  of  their  selection  are 
unconrprehended  by  writers  who  have  all  trite  and 
hackneyed  phrases  at  the  pen's  end.  The  imagi- 
nation begets  original  diction,  suggestive  epithets, 
verbs  implying  extended  scenes  and  events,  phrases 
which  are  a  delight  and  which,  as  we  say,  speak 
volumes,  single  notes  which  establish  the  dominant 
tone. 

This  kind  of  felicity  makes  an  excerpt  from 
"The best  Shakespeare  unmistakable.  Milton's  dic- 
thdJbSt  tion  rivals  that  of  -^schylus,  though  no- 
thing can  outrank  the  Grecian's  avrjpiOfj.ov 
ye'A.ao7*a,  —  the  innumerous  laughter  of  his  ocean 
waves.  But  recall  Milton's  "  wandering  moon  " 
(borrowed,  haply,  from  the  Latin),  and  his  "wilder- 
ness of  sweets  ; "  and  such  phrases  as  "  dim,  reli- 
gious light,"  "fatal  and  perfidious  bark,"  "hide  their 
diminished  heads,"  "the  least  -  erected  spirit  that 
fell,"  "  barbaric  pearl  and  gold,"  "  imparadised  in 
one  another's  arms,"  "rose  like  an  exhalation," 
"  such  sweet  compulsion  doth  in  music  lie  ; "  and 
his  fancies  of  the  daisies'  "  quaint  enamelled  eyes," 
and  of  "dancing  in  the  checkered  shade;"  and 
numberless  similar  beauties  that  we  term  Miltonic. 


THE  MASTERY  OF  WORDS  241 

After  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  Keats  stands  first  in 
respect  of  imaginative  diction.  His  appellatives  of 
the  Grecian  Urn,  "Cold  pastoral,"  and  "Thou  fos- 
ter-child of  silence  and  slow  time,"  are  in  evidence. 
"The  music  yearning  like  a  god  in  pain,"  and 

"  Music's  golden  tongue 
Flattered  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor," 

excel  even  Milton's  "  forget  thyself  to  marble." 
What  a  charm  in  his  "darkling  I  listen,"  and  his 
thought  of  Ruth  "  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn  "  ! 
Shelley's  diction  is  less  sure  and  eclectic,  yet  some- 
times his  expression,  like  his  own  skylark,  is  "an 
unbodied  joy."  Byron's  imaginative  language  is 
more  rhetorical,  but  none  will  forget  his  "  haunted, 
holy  ground,"  "  Death's  prophetic  ear,"  "  the  quiet 
of  a  loving  eye "  (which  is  like  Wordsworth,  and 
again  like  Lander's  phrase  on  Milton,  —  "the  Sab- 
bath of  his  mind  ").  None  would  forego  "  the  blue 
rushing  of 'the  arrowy  Rhone,"  or  "the  dead  but 
sceptred  sovereigns,  who  still  rule  our  spirits  from 
their  urns,"  or  such  a  combination  of  imagination 
and  feeling  as  this  :  — 

"  I  turned  from  all  she  brought  to  those  she  could  not  bring." 

Coleridge's  "myriad-minded  Shakespeare "  is  enough 
to  show  his  mastery  of  words.  A  conjuring  quality 
like  that  of  the  voices  heard  by  Kubla  Khan,  — 

"  Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war,  —  " 

lurks  in  the  imaginative  lines  of  our  Southern  lyrist, 


242  IMAGINATION 


Boner,  upon  the  cottage  at  Fordham,  which  aver  of 
Poe,  that 

"  Here  in  the  sobbing  showers 
Of  dark  autumnal  hours 
He  heard  suspected  powers 

Shriek  through  the  stormy  wood." 

Tennyson's  words  often  seem  too  laboriously  and 
exquisitely  chosen.  But  that  was  a  good  moment 
when,  in  his  early  poem  of  "CEnone,"  he  pictured 
her  as  wandering 

"  Forlorn  of  Paris,  once  her  playmate  on  the  hills." 

Amongst  Americans,  Emerson  has  been  the  chief 
master  of  words  and  phrases.  Who  save  he  could 
enveil  us  in  "  the  tumultuous  privacy  "  of  the  snow- 
storm ?  Lowell  has  great  verbal  felicity.  It  was 
manifest  even  in  the  early  period  when  he  apostro- 
phized the  dandelion,  —  "  Dear  common  flower," 
"Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy,"  —  and  told 
us  of  its  "harmless  gold."  But  I  have  cited  a  suffi- 
cient number  of  these  well-wonted  instances.  Enter- 
ing the  amazing  treasure-house  of  English  song,  one 
must  remember  the  fate  of  the  trespasser  within  the 
enchanted  grotto  of  the  "  Gesta  Romanorum,"  where 
rubies,  sapphires,  diamonds,  lay  in  flashing  heaps  on 
every  side.  When  he  essayed  to  fill  his  wallet  with 
them,  the  spell  was  broken,  the  arrow  whizzed,  and 
he  met  the  doom  allotted  to  pickers  and  stealers. 

With  respect  to  configuration,  the  antique  genius, 


"THINGS  BEYOND  MORTALITY"          243 

in  literature  as  in  art,  was  clear  and  assured.  It  ima- 
gined plainly,  and  drew  firm  outlines.  But  configuration 
the  Acts  and  Scenes  of  our  English  and  oudine- 
dramatists  were  often  shapeless ;  their  schemes  were 
full  of  by-play  and  plot  within  plot ;  in  fine,  their 
constructive  faculty  showed  the  caprice  of  rich  ima- 
ginations that  disdained  control.  Shakespeare,  alone 
of  all,  never  fails  to  justify  Leigh  Hunt's  maxim 
that,  in  treating  of  the  unusual,  "  one  must  be  true 
to  the  supernatural  itself."  When  the  French  and 
German  romanticists  broke  loose  from  the  classic 
unities,  they,  too,  at  first  went  wild.  Again,  the 
antique  conceptions  are  as  sensuous,  beside  the 
modern,  as  the  Olympian  hierarchy  compared  with 
the  spiritual  godhood  to  which  Christendom  has 
consecrated  its  ideals.  But  whether  pagan  The  su  ernat_ 
or  Christian,  all  the  supernaturalism  of  ural- 
the  dark  and  mystic  North  has  a  more  awe-inspiring 
quality  than  that  of  sunlit  Italy  and  Greece.  There 
are  weird  beings  in  the  classic  mythology,  but  its 
Fates  and  Furies  are  less  spectral  than  the  Valkyries 
and  the  prophetic  Sisters  of  the  blasted  heath. 
Even  in  the  mediaeval  under-world  of  Dante,  the 
damned  and  their  tormentors  are  substantially  and 
materially  presented,  with  a  few  exceptions,  -like  the 
lovers  of  Rimini,  —  the 

"  unhappy  pair 
That  float  in  hell's  murk  air." 

Having,  then,  laid  stress  upon  the  excellence  of  clear 


244  IMA  GIN  A  TION 


vision,  let  me  add  that  imaginative  genius  can  force 
compulsion  of  us  to  recognize  the  wonder,  terror,  and 
the  Vague.  sublimity  of  the  Vague.  Through  its  sug- 
gested power  we  are  withdrawn  from  the  firm-set 
world,  and  feel  what  it  is 

"  to  be  a  mortal 
And  seek  the  things  beyond  mortality." 

What  lies  beyond,  in  the  terra  incognita  from  which 
we  are  barred  as  from  the  polar  spaces  guarded  by 
arctic  and  antarctic  barriers,  can  only  be  suggested 
by  formlessness,  extension,  imposing  shadow,  and 
phantasmal  light.  The  early  Hebraic  expression  of 
its  mysteries  will  never  be  surpassed.  Nothing  in 
even  the  culminating  vision  of  the  Apocalypse  so 
takes  hold  of  us  as  the  ancient  words  of  Eliphaz,  in 
the  Book  of  Job,  describing  the  fear  that  came  upon 
him  in  the  night,  when  deep  sleep  falleth  on  man  :  — 

"  Then  a  spirit  passed  before  my  face ;  the  hair  of  my 
flesh  stood  up.  It  stood  still,  but  I  could  not  discern  the 
form  thereof :  an  image  was  before  mine  eyes,  there  was 
silence,  and  I  heard  a  voice,  saying :  '  Shall  mortal  man 
be  more  just  than  God  ?  Shall  a  man  be  more  pure  than 
his  Maker  ? '  " 

English  poetry  doubly  inherits  the  sublimity  of 
camoens,  Mil-  tne  vague,  f rom  its  Oriental  and  its  Gothic 
ton,  coieridge.  strajns  Yet  it  has  produced  few  images 

more  striking  than  that  one  which  lifts  the  "  Lusiad," 
by  Camoens,  above  the  level  of  a  perfunctory  epic. 
Vasco  da  Gama  and  his  crew  are  struggling  to  pass 


SUBLIMITY  OF  THE  VAGUE  245 

the  southern  point  of  Africa  into  the  Indian  seas 
beyond.  The  Spirit  of  the  Cape  of  Tempests,  man- 
tled in  blackness  of  cloud,  girt  about  with  lightning 
and  storm,  towers  skyward  from  the  billows,  porten- 
tous, awful,  vague,  and  with  an  unearthly  voice  of 
menace  warns  the  voyagers  back.  I  have  said  that 
the  grandest  of  English  supernatural  creations  is 
Milton's  Satan.  No  other  personage  has  at  once 
such  magnitude  and  definiteness  of  outline  as  that 
sublime,  defiant  archangel,  whether  in  action  or  in 
repose.  Milton,  like  Dante,  has  to  do  with  the  un- 
known world.  The  Florentine  bard  soars  at  last 
within  the  effulgence  of  "  the  eternal,  coeternal 
beam."  Milton's  imagination  broods  "  in  the  wide 
womb  of  uncreated  night."  We  enter  that  "  palpa- 
ble obscure,"  where  there  is  "no  light,  but  rather 
darkness  visible,"  and  where  lurk  many  a  "grisly 
terror"  and  "execrable  shape."  But  the  genii  of 
wonder  and  terror  are  the  familiars  of  a  long  succes- 
sion of  our  English  poets.  Coleridge,  who  so  had 
them  at  his  own  call,  knew  well  their  signs  and 
work ;  as  when  he  pointed  a  sure  finger  to  Drayton's 
etching  of  the  trees  which 

"  As  for  revenge  to  heaven  each  held  a  withered  hand." 

Science  drives  spectre  after  spectre  from  its  path, 
but  the  rule  still  holds — omne  ignotum  pro  magnifico, 
and  a  vaster  unknown,  a  more  impressive  vague,  still 
deepens  and  looms  before. 

A  peculiarly  imaginative  sense  of  the  beautiful, 


246  IMA  GIN  A  TION 


also,  is  conveyed  at  times  by  an  exquisite  formless- 
imaginative  ness  °f  outline.  I  asked  the  late  Mr.  Grant 
formlessness,  \yhite  what  he  thought  of  a  certain  pic- 
ture by  Inness,  and  he  replied  that  it  seemed  to  be 
"  painted  by  a  blind  poet."  But  no  Inness,  Fuller, 
Corot,  Rousseau,  not  even  Turner,  nor  the  broad, 
luminous  spaces  of  Homer  Martin,  ever  excelled  the 
magic  of  the  changeful  blending  conceptions  of 
Shelley,  so  aptly  termed  the  poet  of  Cloudland.  The 
cioudiand;  feeling  of  his  lyrical  passages  is  all  his 
own.  How  does  it  justify  itself  and  so 
hold  us  in  thrall  ?  Yield  to  it,  and  if  there  is  any- 
thing sensitive  in  your  mould  you  are  hypnotized,  as 
if  in  truth  gazing  heavenward  and  fixing  your  eyes 
upon  a  beauteous  and  protean  cloud ;  fascinated  by 
its  silvery  shapelessness,  its  depth,  its  vistas,  its  iri- 
descence and  gloom.  Listen,  and  the  cloud  is  vocal 
with  a  music  not  to  be  defined.  There  is  no  appeal 
to  the  intellect ;  the  mind  seeks  not  for  a  meaning ; 
the  cloud  floats  ever  on ;  the  music  is  changeful, 
ceaseless,  and  uncloying.  Their  plumed  invoker  has 
become  our  type  of  the  pure  spirit  of  song,  almost 
sexless,  quite  removed  at  times  from  earth  and  the 
CD.  "  Poets  carnal  passions.  Such  a  poet  could  never 
P.  266.  be  a  sensualist.  "  Brave  translunary 

things"  are  to  him  the  true  realities  ;  he  is,  indeed, 
a  creature  of  air  and  light.  "  The  Witch  of  Atlas," 
an  artistic  caprice,  is  a  work  of  imagination,  though 
as  transparent  as  the  moonbeams  and  as  unconscious 
of  warmth  and  cold.  Mary  Shelley  objected  to  it  on 


CLOUDLAND  —  FANCY  247 

,the  score  that  it  had  no  human  interest.  It  certainly 
is  a  kind  of  aer  potabilis,  a  wine  that  lacks  body  ;  it 
violates  Goethe's  dictum,  to  wit:  "Two  things  are 
required  of  the  poet  and  the  artist,  that  he  should 
rise  above  reality  and  yet  remain  within  the  sphere 
of  the  sensuous."  But  there  is  always  a  law  above 
law  for  genius,  and  all  things  are  possible  to  it  — 
even  the  entrance  to  a  realm  not  ordered  in  life  and 
emotion  according  to  the  conditions  of  this  palpable 
warm  planet  to  which  our  feet  are  bound. 

As  in  nature,  so  in  art,  that  which  relatively  to 
ourselves  is  large  and  imposing  has  a  cor-  T.. 

Dimensional 

responding  effect  upon  the  mind.  Mag-  effect 
nitude  is  not  to  be  disdained  as  an  imaginative  fac- 
tor. An  heroic  masterpiece  of  Angelo's  has  this 
advantage  at  the  start  over  some  elaborate  carving 
by  Cellini.  Landor  says  that  "  a  throne  is  not  built 
of  birds'-nests,  nor  do  a  thousand  reeds  make  a  trum- 
pet." Of  course,  if  dimension  is  to  be  the  essential 
test,  we  are  lost.  Every  one  feels  himself  to  be 
greater  than  a  mountain,  than  the  ocean,  even  than 
Chaos  ;  yet  an  imaginative  observer  views  the  mea- 
sureless nebula  with  awe,  conceiving  a  universe  of 
systems,  of  worlds  tenanted  by  conscious  beings, 
which  is  to  be  evolved  from  that  lambent,  ambient 
star-dust. 

Certain  it  is  that  when  we  seek  the  other  extreme, 
the  province   of  the  microscopic,  Fancy,      Fancy, 
the  elf -child  of  Imagination,  sports  within  her  own 
minute  and  capricious  realm.     Her  land  is  that  of 


248  IMAGINATION 


whims  and  conceits,  of  mock  associations,  of  Mid- 
summer Nights'  Dreams.  She  has  her  own  epithets 
for  its  denizens,  for  the  "  green  little  vaulter,"  the 
" yellow-breeched  philosopher,"  the  "animated  tor- 
rid zone,"  of  her  dainty  minstrelsy.  Poets  of  imagi- 
nation are  poets  of  fancy  when  they  choose  to  be. 
Hester  Prynne  was  ever  attended  by  her  tricksy 
Pearl.  But  many  is  the  poet  of  fancy  who  never 
enters  the  courts  of  imagination  —  a  joyous  faun 
indeed,  and  wanting  nothing  but  a  soul. 

A  large  utterance,  such  as  that  which  Keats  be- 
"The  nd  stowed  upon  the  early  gods,  is  the  instinc- 
manner."  tjve  vojce  of  the  imagination  nobly  roused 
and  concerned  with  an  heroic  theme.  There  are 
few  better  illustrations  of  this  than  the  cadences 
and  diction  of  "  Hyperion,"  a  torso  equal  to  the  fin- 
ished work  of  any  other  English  poet  after  Shake- 
speare and  Milton  ;  perhaps  even  greater  because  a 
torso,  for  the  construction  of  its  fable  is  not  signifi- 
cant, and  when  Keats  produced  his  effect,  he  ended 
the  poem  as  Coleridge  ended  "  Christabel."  All 
qualities  which  I  have  thus  far  termed  imaginative 
contribute  to  the  majesty  of  its  overture  :  — 

"  Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale 
Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of  morn, 
Far  from  the  fiery  noon,  and  eve's  one  star, 
Sat  gray-hair'd  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone, 
Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair. 
Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head 
Like  cloud  on  cloud.     No  stir  of  air  was  there,  — 
Not  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 


MAJESTIC  UTTERANCE  249 

Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feather'd  grass, 
But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,  there  did  it  rest. 
A  stream  went  voiceless  by,  still  deaden'd  more 
By  reason  of  his  fallen  divinity 
Spreading  a  shade  :  the  Naiad  'mid  her  reeds 
Press'd  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips." 

At  the  outset  of  English  poetry,  Chaucer's  imag- 
ination is  sane,  clear-sighted,  wholesome  Chaucer, 
with  open-air  feeling  and  truth  to  life.  Spenser  is 
the  poet's  poet  chiefly  as  an  artist.  The  allegory  of 
"The  Faerie  Queene"  is  not  like  that  of  Dante, 
forged  at  white  heat,  but  the  symbolism  of  a  courtier 
and  euphuist  who  felt  its  unreality.  But  all  in  all, 
the  Elizabethan  period  displays  the  Eng-  The  EKza_ 
lish  imagination  at  full  height.  Marlowe  bethans- 
and  Webster,  for  example,  give  out  fitful  but  imag- 
inative light  which  at  times  is  of  kindred  splendor 
with  Shakespeare's  steadfast  beam.  Webster's 
"  Duchess  of  Malfi  "  teaches  both  the  triumphs  and 
the  dangers  of  the  dramatic  fury.  The  construction 
runs  riot  ;  certain  characters  are  powerfully  con- 
ceived, others  are  wild  figments  of  the  brain.  It  is 
full  of  most  fantastic  speech  and  action ;  yet  the 
tragedy,  the  passion,  the  felicitous  language  and 
imagery  of  various  scenes,  are  nothing  less  than 
Shakespearean.  To  comprehend  rightly  the  good 
and  bad  qualities  of  this  play  is  to  have  gained  a 
liberal  education  in  poetic  criticism. 

Now  take  a  collection  of  English  verse,  —  and 
there  is  no  poetry  more  various  and  inclusive,  — 
take,  let  us  say,  Ward's  "English  Poets,"  and  you 


250  IMA  GIN  A  TION 


will  find  that  the  generations  after  Shakespeare  are 
TWO  centuries,  not  over-imaginative  until  you  approach 
the  nineteenth  century.  From  Jonson  to  the  Geor- 
gian school  there  is  no  general  efflux  of  visionary 
power.  The  lofty  Milton  and  a  few  minor  lights  — 
Dryden,  Collins,  Chatterton  —  shine  at  intervals 
between.  Precisely  the  most  unimaginative  period 
is  that  covered  by  Volume  III.  and  entitled  "  From 
Addison  to  Blake."  We  have  tender  feeling  and 
true  in  Goldsmith  and  Gray.  There  is  no  passion, 
no  illumination,  until  you  reach  Burns  and  his  im- 
mediate successors.  Then  imagination  leaped  again 
to  life,  springing  chiefly  from  subjective  emotion, 
as  among  the  Elizabethans  it  sprang  from  young 
adventure,  from  discovery  and  renown  of  arms, 
above  all  from  the  objective  study  of  the  types  and 
conduct  of  mankind.  If  another  century  shall  add 
a  third  imaginative  lustre  to  the  poetry  of  our 
tongue,  —  enkindled,  perchance,  by  the  flame  of  a 
more  splendid  order  of  discovery,  even  now  so  ex- 
alting, —  it  will  have  done  its  equal  share. 

The  Mercury  and  Iris  of  this  heavenly  power  are 
Comparison,      comparison  and   association,  whose  light 
wings  flash  unceasingly.     Look  at  Words- 
worth's similes.     He  took  from  nature  her  primitive 
The  elemental  symbolism.     Consider  his  elemental  qual- 
ity :   I  use  the  word  as  did  the  ancients  in 
their  large,  untutored  view  of  things,  —  as  Prospero 
uses  it,  ere  laying  down  his  staff :  — 


THE  ELEMENTAL  BARDS  2$  I 

"  My  Ariel,  —  chick,  — 
That  is  thy  charge  :  then  to  the  elements 
Be  free,  and  fare  thou  well ! " 

In  Wordsworth's  mind  nature  is  so  absolute   that 
her  skies  and  mountains  are  just  as  plainly  Wordsworth, 
imaged  as  in  the  sheen  of  Derwentwater ;  and  thence 
they  passed  into  his  verse.     He  wanders,  — 

"  lonely  as  a  cloud 
That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills." 

He  says  of  Milton  :  — 

"  Thy  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt  apart." 

A  primeval  sorrow,  a  cosmic  pain,  is  in  the  expres- 
sion of  his  dead  love's  reunion  with  the  elements :  — 

"  No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force ; 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees, 
Rolled  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course, 
With  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees." 

The  souls  of  the  Hebrew  bards,  inheritors  of  pas- 
toral memories,  ever  consorted  with  the  elements, 
invoking  the  "heavens  of  heavens,"  "the  waters 
that  be  above  the  heavens,"  "  fire  and  hail ;  snow, 
and  vapor :  stormy  wind  fulfilling  His  word."  Of 
the  Greeks,  ^Eschylus  is  more  elemental  than  Pin- 
dar, even  than  Homer.  Among  our  moderns,  a 
kindred  quality  strengthened  the  imaginations  of 
Byron  and  Shelley ;  Swinburne  too,  whom  at  his 
best  the  Hebraic  feeling  and  the  Grecian  sway  by 
turns,  is  most  self-forgetful  and  exalted  when  giving 
it  full  play. 


252  IMA  GIN  A  TION 


I  point  you  to  the  fact  that  some  of  our  American 
Bryant  CP  poets,  if  not  conspicuous  thus  far  for  dra- 
AmericY":  matic  power,  have  been  gifted  —  as  seems 
fitting  in  respect  to  their  environment  — 
with  a  distinct  share  of  this  elemental  imagination. 
It  is  the  strength  of  Bryant's  genius  :  the  one  secret, 
if  you  reflect  upon  it,  of  the  still  abiding  fame  of 
that  austere  and  revered  minstrel.  His  soul,  too, 
dwelt  apart,  but  like  the  mountain-peak  that  looks 
over  forest,  plain,  and  ocean,  and  confabulates  with 
winds  and  clouds.  I  am  not  sure  but  that  his  ele- 
mental feeling  is  more  impressive  than  Words- 
worth's, from  its  almost  preadamite  simplicity.  It  is 
often  said  that  Bryant's  loftiest  mood  came  and 
went  with  "Thanatopsis."  This  was  not  so;  though 
it  seemed  at  times  in  abeyance.  "  The  Flood  of 
Years,"  written  sixty-five  years  later  than  "  Thana- 
topsis "  and  when  the  bard  was  eighty-two,  has  the 
characteristic  and  an  even  more  sustained  majesty 
of  thought  and  diction. 

It  is  easy  to  comprehend  why  the  father  of  Amer- 
ican  song  should  be  held  in  honor  by 


blank  verse,  . 

etc.  poets  as  different  as  Richard  Henry  Stod- 

dard  and  Walt  Whitman.  These  men  have  pos- 
sessed one  quality  in  common.  Stoddard's  random 
and  lighter  lyrics  are  familiar  to  magazine  readers, 
with  whom  the  larger  efforts  of  a  poet  are  not 
greatly  in  demand.  But  I  commend  those  who  care 
for  high  and  lasting  qualities  to  an  acquaintance 
with  his  blank  verse,  and  with  sustained  lyrics  like 


BRYANT—  STODDARD— WHITMAN        253 

the  odes  on  Shakespeare  and  Bryant  and  Washing- 
ton, which  resemble  his  blank  verse  both  in  artistic 
perfection  and  in  imagination  excelled  by  no  con- 
temporary poet.  Whitman's  genius  is  prodigal  and 
often  so  elemental,  whether  dwelling  upon  whitman's 
his  types  of  the  American  people,  or  upon  cosmic  mood> 
nature  animate  and  inanimate  in  his  New  World, 
or  upon  mysteries  of  science  and  the  future,  that  it 
at  times  moves  one  to  forego,  as  passing  and  ines- 
sential, any  demur  to  his  matter  or  manner.  There 
is  no  gainsaying  the  power  of  his  imagination, — a 
faculty  which  he  indulged,  having  certainly  carried 
out  that  early  determination  to  loaf,  and  invite  his 
soul.  His  highest  mood  is  even  more  than  elemen- 
tal ;  it  is  cosmic.  In  almost  the  latest  poem  of  this 
old  bard,  addressed  "  To  the  Sunset  Breeze "  (one 
fancies  him  sitting,  like  Borrow's  blind  gypsy,  where 
he  can  feel  the  wind  from  the  heath),  he  thus  ex- 
pressed it :  — 

"  I  feel  the  sky,  the  prairies  vast—  I  feel  the  mighty  northern  lakes  ; 
I  feel  the  ocean  and  the  forest  —  somehow  I  feel  the  globe  itself  swift- 
swimming  in  space" 

Lanier  is  another  of  the  American  poets  distin- 
guished  by  imaginative   genius.     In   his  Some  other 
case  this  became  more  and  more  impres-  poets' 
sible  by  the  sense  of  elemental  nature,  and  perhaps 
more  subtly  alert  to  the  infinite  variety  within  the 
unities    of    her    primary   forms.      Mrs.    Stoddard's 
poetry,  as  yet  uncollected,  is  imaginative  and  origi- 
nal, the  utterance  of  moods  that  are  only  too  infre- 


254  IMA  GIN  A  TION 


quent.  The  same  may  be  said  of  a  few  poems  by  Dr. 
Parsons,  from  whom  we  have  perhaps  the  finest  of 
American  lyrics,  the  lines  "  On  a  Bust  of  Dante." 
There  is  a  nobly  elemental  strain  in  Taylor's  "  Prince 
Deukalion "  and  "  The  Masque  of  the  Gods."  I 
could  name  several  of  our  younger  poets,  men  and 
women,  and  a  number  of  their  English  compeers, 
whose  work  displays  imaginative  qualities,  were  it 
not  beyond  my  province.  But  many  of  the  new- 
comers —  relatively  more,  perhaps,  than  in  former 
divisions  of  this  century — seem  restricted  to  the 
neat-trimmed  playgrounds  of  fancy  and  device  ;  they 
deck  themselves  like  pages,  rarely  venturing  from 
the  palace-close  into  the  stately  Forest  of  Dreams. 
If  one  should  stray  down  a  gloaming  vista,  and  be 
aided  by  the  powers  therein  to  chance  for  once  upon 
some  fine  conception,  I  fancy  him  recoiling  from  his 
own  imagining  as  from  the  shadow  of  a  lion. 

Here,  then,  after  the  merest  glimpse  of  its  aureole, 
on  wings        we  turn  away  from  the  creative  imagina- 

above  his 

fate  upborne,  tion  :  a  spirit  that  attends  the  poet  unbid- 
den, if  at  all,  and  compensates  him  for  neglect  and 
sorrow  by  giving  him  the  freedom  of  a  clime  not 
recked  of  by  the  proud  and  mighty,  and  a  spiritual 
wealth  "beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice."  Not  all  the 
armor  and  curios  and  drapery  of  a  Sybaritic  studio 
can  make  a  painter;  no  aesthetic  mummery,  no  mas- 
tery of  graceful  rhyme  and  measure,  can  of  them- 
selves furnish  forth  a  poet.  Go  rather  to  Barbizon, 


ABOVE  FATE  AND   CHANCE  255 

.' 

and  see  what  pathetic  truth  and  beauty  dwell  within 
the  humble  rooms  of  Millet's  cottage ;  go  to  Ayr, 
and  find  the  muse's  darling  beneath  a  straw-thatched 
roof ;  think  what  feudal  glories  came  to  Chatterton 
in  his  garret,  what  thoughts  of  fair  marble  shapes, 
of  casements  "  innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid 
dyes,"  lighted  up  for  Keats  his  borough  lodgings. 
Dor6  was  asked,  at  the  flood-tide  of  his  good  for- 
tune, why  he  did  not  buy  or  build  a  chateau.  "  Let 
my  patrons  do  that,"  he  said.  "  Why  should  I,  who 
have  no  need  of  it  ?  My  chateau  is  here,  behind  my 
forehead."  He  who  owns  the  wings  of  imagination 
shudders  on  no  height  ;  he  is  above  fate  and  chance. 
Its  power  of  vision  makes  him  greater  creation, 
still,  for  he  sees  and  illuminates  every-day  life  and 
common  things.  Its  creative  gift  is  divine ;  and  I 
can  well  believe  the  story  told  of  the  greatest  and 
still  living  Victorian  poet,  that  once,  in  his  college 
days,  he  looked  deep  and  earnestly  into  the  suba- 
queous life  of  a  stream  near  Cambridge,  and  was 
heard  to  say,  "What  an  imagination  God  has!" 
Certainly  without  it  was  not  anything  made  that 
was  made,  either  by  the  Creator,  or  by  those  cre- 
ated in  his  likeness.  I  say  "  created,"  but  there  are 
times  when  we  think  upon  the  amazing  «Yeshaii 
beauty,  the  complexity,  the  power  and  beasGodsir" 
endurance,  of  the  works  of  human  hands  —  such  as, 
for  example,  some  of  the  latest  architectural  deco- 
rations illuminated  by  the  electric  light  with  splen- 
dor never  conceived  of  even  by  an  ancestral  rhapso- 


256  IMA  GIN  A  TION 


dist  in  his  dreams  of  the  New  Jerusalem  —  there  are 
moments  when  results  of  this  sort,  suggesting  the 
greater  possible  results  of  future  artistic  and  scien- 
tific effort,  give  the  theory  of  divinity  as  absolutely 
immanent  in  man  a  proud  significance.  We  then 
comprehend  the  full  purport  of  the  Genesitic  rec- 
ord, — "  Ye  shall  be  as  gods."  The  words  of  the 
Psalmist  have  a  startling  verity,  —  "I  have  said,  Ye 
are  gods  ;  and  all  of  you  are  children  of  the  Most 
High."  We  remember  that  one  who  declared  him- 
self the  direct  offspring  and  very  portion  of  the 
Unknown  Power,  and  in  evidence  stood  upon  his 
works  alone,  repeated  these  words,  —  by  inference 
recognizing  a  share  of  Deity  within  each  child  of 
earth.  The  share  allotted  to  such  a  mould  as 
Shakespeare's  evoked  Hartley  Coleridge's  declara- 
tion :  — 

"  The  soul  of  man  is  larger  than  the  sky, 
Deeper  than  ocean  —  or  the  abysmal  dark 
Of  the  unfathomed  centre.  .  .  . 
So  in  the  compass  of  the  single  mind 
The  seeds  and  pregnant  forms  in  essence  lie 
That  make  all  worlds." 

But  what  was  the  old  notion  of  the  act  of  divine 
The  infinite  creation  ?  That  which  reduced  divinity  to 
process.  ^e  Sprjj-e  of  folklore,  who  by  a  word,  a 
spell,  or  the  wave  of  a  wand,  evoked  a  city,  a  person, 
an  army,  out  of  the  void.  The  Deity  whom  we 
adore  in  our  generation  has  taken  us  into  his  work- 
shop. We  see  that  he  creates,  as  we  construct, 


CREATIVE  GIFT  DIVINE 


slowly  and  patiently,  through  ages  and  by  evolution, 
one  step  leading  to  the  next.  I  reassert,  then,  that 
"  as  far  as  the  poet,  the  artist,  is  creative,  he  be- 
comes a  sharer  of  the  divine  imagination  and  power, 
and  even  of  the  divine  responsibility."  And  I  now 
find  this  assertion  so  well  supported,  that  "TWO 

Worlds."    By 

I  cannot  forbear  quoting  from  "  A  Mid-  R-  w-  cader. 
summer  Meditation  "  in  a  recent  volume  of  Ameri- 
can poetry  :  — 

"  Brave  conqueror  of  dull  mortality  ! 
Look  up  and  be  a  part  of  all  thou  see'st  ;  — 
Ocean  and  earth  and  miracle  of  sky, 
All  that  thou  see'st  thou  art,  and  without  thee 
Were  nothing.     Thou,  a  god,  dost  recreate 
The  whole  ;  breathing  thy  soul  on  all,  till  all 
Is  one  wide  world  made  perfect  at  thy  touch. 
And  know  that  thou,  who  darest  a  world  create, 
Art  one  with  the  Almighty,  son  to  sire  — 
Of  his  eternity  a  quenchless  spark." 

We  have  seen  that  with  the  poet  imagination  is 
the  essential  key  to  expression.  The  incentive. 
other  thing  of  most  worth  is  that  which  moves  him 
to  expression,  the  passion  of  his  heart  and  soul.  I 
close,  therefore,  by  saying  that  without  either  of 
these  elements  we  can  have  poetry  which  may  seem 
to  you  tender,  animating,  enjoyable,  and  of  value  in 
its  way,  but  without  imagination  there  can  be  no 
poetry  which  is  great.  Possibly  we  can  have  great 
poetry  which  is  devoid  of  passion,  but  great  only 
through  its  tranquillizing  power,  through  tones  that 
calm  and  strengthen,  yet  do  not  exalt  and  thrill. 


258  IMA  GIN  A  TION 


Such  is  not  the  poetry  which  stirs  one  to  make  an 
avowal  like  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  :  — 

"I  never  heard  the  old  song  of  Percy  and  Douglas,  that 
I  found  not  my  heart  moved  more  than  with  a  trumpet." 


VIII. 

THE   FACULTY   DIVINE. 

POETIC  expression  is  that  of  light  from  a  star,  our 
straightest   message  from   the   inaccessi-  unde  aether 

.    .  sidera  pascit  ? 

Die  human  soul.  Critics  may  apply  their  —LWT. 
spectral  analysis  to  the  beam,  but  without  such  a 
process  our  sympathetic  instinct  tells  us  how  fine, 
how  rude,  how  rare  or  common,  are  the  primal  con- 
stituents from  which  its  vibrations  are  derived. 
The  heat-rays,  the  light,  the  actinic, — these  may 
be  combined  in  ever  various  proportions,  but  to 
make  a  vivid  expression  they  must  in  some  propor- 
tion come  together.  Behind  the  action  at  their 
starting-place  glows  and  pulsates  a  spirit  of  myste- 
rious and  immortal  force,  the  "  vital  spark,"  to  com- 
prehend which  were  to  lay  hold  upon  divinity  itself. 
As  to  the  poet's  share  of  this,  Wordsworth,  that  in- 
spired schoolmaster  with  the  gift  to  create  a  soul 
under  the  ribs  of  pedantry,  conceived  his  impressive 
title,  —  "the  faculty  divine."  Before  approaching 
more  closely  to  this  radiant  source,  we  have  to 
touch  upon  one  remaining  element  which  seems 
most  of  all  to  excite  its  activity,  and  to  which,  in 
truth,  a  whole  discourse  might  be  devoted  as  equita- 
bly as  to  truth,  or  beauty,  or  imagination. 


260  THE  FACULTY  DIVINE 

I  have  laid  stress,  heretofore,  upon  the  passion 
Passion.  See  which  so  vivifies  all  true  poetry  that  cer- 

1'9'49'  tain  thinkers  believe  the  art  has  no  other 
office  than  to  give  emotion  vent.  And  I  have  just 
said  that,  while  poetry  which  is  not  imaginative  can- 
not be  great,  the  utterance  which  lacks  passion  is 
seldom  imaginative.  It  may  tranquillize,  but  it  sel- 
dom exalts  and  thrills.  Therefore,  what  is  this 
quality  which  we  recognize  as  passion  in  imagina- 
tive literature  ?  What  does  Milton  signify,  in  his 
masterly  tractate  on  education,  by  the  element  of 
poetry  which,  as  we  have  seen,  he  mentions  last,  as 
if  to  emphasize  it  ?  Poetry,  he  says,  is  simple,  — 
and  so  is  all  art  at  its  best ;  it  is  sensuous,  —  and 
thus  related  to  our  mortal  perceptions  ;  lastly,  it  is 
passionate, — and  this,  I  think,  it  must  be  to  be 
genuine. 

In  popular  usage  the  word  "  passion"  is  almost  a 
Not  an  synonym  for  love,  and  we  hear  of  "poets 

epithet  of  '  J 

love  alone.  of  passion,"  votaries  of  Eros  or  Anteros, 
as  the  case  may  be.  Love  has  a  fair  claim  to  its 
title  of  the  master  passion,  despite  the  arguments 
made  in  behalf  of  friendship  and  ambition  respec- 
tively, and  whether  supremacy  over  human  conduct, 
or  its  service  to  the  artistic  imagination,  be  the  less. 
Almost  every  narrative-poem,  novel,  or  drama,  what- 
soever other  threads  its  coil  may  carry,  seems  to 
have  love  for  a  central  strand.  Love  has  the  heart 
of  youth  in  it, 

"  —  and  the  heart 
Giveth  grace  unto  every  art." 


"  SIMPLE  —  SENSUO  US  —  PA  SSI  ON  A  TE  "    26 1 


Love,  we  know,  has  brought  about  historic  wars  and 
treaties,  has  founded  dynasties,  made  and  unmade 
chiefs  and  cabinets,  inspired  men  to  great  deeds  or 
lured  them  to  evil :  in  our  own  day  has  led  more 
than  one  of  its  subjects  to  imperil  the  liberty  of  a 
nation,  if  not  to  deem,  with  Dryden's  royal  pair,  "the 
world  well  lost."  A  strenuous  passion  indeed,  and 
one  the  force  of  which  pervades  imaginative  litera- 
ture. 

But  if  Milton  had  used  the  word  "impassioned," 
his  meaning  would  be  plainer  to  the  vul-  passionand 
gar  apprehension.  Poetic  passion  is  in-  Imagma 
tensity  of  emotion.  Absolute  sincerity  banishes 
artifice,  ensures  earnest  and  natural  expression  ;  then 
beauty  comes  without  effort,  and  the  imaginative 
note  is  heard.  We  have  the  increased  stress  of 
breath,  the  tone,  and  volume,  that  sway  the  listener. 
You  cannot  fire  his  imagination,  you  cannot  rouse 
your  own,  in  quite  cold  blood.  Profound  emotion 
seems,  also,  to  find  the  aptest  word,  the  strongest 
utterance,  —  not  the  most  voluble  or  spasmodic,  — 
and  to  be  content  with  it.  Wordsworth  speaks  of 
"thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears," 
while  Mill  says  that  "  the  poetry  of  a  poet  is  Feel- 
ing itself,  using  thought  only  as  a  means  of  expres- 
sion." The  truth  is  that  passion  uses  the  imagina- 
tion to  supply  conceptions  for  its  language.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  poet,  imagining  situations  and  ex- 
periences, becomes  excited  through  dwelling  on 
them.  But  whether  passion  or  imagination  be  first 


262  THE  FACULTY  DIVINE 

aroused,  they  speed  together  like  the  wind-sired 
horses  of  Achilles. 

The  mere  artisan  in  verse,  however  adroit,  will  do 

Emotion  must  well  to  keep  within  his  liberties.  Some- 
be  unaffected  .  /-  i  /-/- 

and  ideal.  times  you  find  one  affecting  the  impas- 
sioned tone.  It  is  a  dangerous  test.  His  wings 
usually  melt  in  the  heat  of  the  flame  he  would  ap- 
proach. Passion  has  a  finer  art  than  that  of  the 
aesthete  with  whom  beauty  is  the  sole  end.  Sappho 
illustrated  this,  even  among  the  Greeks,  with  whom 
art  and  passion  were  one.  Keats  felt  that  "the 
excellence  of  every  art  is  its  intensity,  capable  of 
making  all  disagreeables  evaporate,  from  their  being 
in  close  relations  with  beauty  and  truth."  Passion 
rises  above  the  sensuous,  certainly  above  the  merely 
sensual,  or  it  has  no  staying  power.  I  heard  a  wit 
say  of  a  certain  painting  that  it  was  "  repulsive 
equally  to  the  artist,  the  moralist,  and  the  voluptuary." 
Even  in  love  there  must  be  something  ideal,  or  it  is 
soon  outlawed  of  art.  A  few  of  Swinburne's  early 
lyrics,  usually  classed  as  erotic,  with  all  their  rhyth- 
mic beauty,  are  not  impassioned.  His  true  genius, 
his  sacred  rage,  break  forth  in  measures  burning 
with  devotion  to  art,  to  knowledge,  or  to  liberty. 
There  is  more  real  passion  in  one  of  the  resonant 
"  Songs  before  Sunrise "  than  in  all  the  studiously 
erotic  verse  of  the  period,  his  own  included. 

The  idea  that  poetry  is  uttered  emotion,  though 
now  somewhat  in  abeyance,  is  on  the  whole  mod- 
ern. It  was  distinctive  with  the  romantic  school, 


PASSION  263 

until   the   successors   of  Scott    and  Byron  allied  a 
new   and   refined    tenderness   to   beauty.   Recognition 

pi  this  force 

The  first  rush  had  been  that  of  splendid  '"art- 
barbarians.  It  is  so  true  that  strong  natures  recog- 
nize the  force  of  passion,  that  even  Wordsworth, 
conscious  of  great  moods,  was  led  to  confess  that 
"  poetry  is  the  spontaneous  outflow  of  powerful 
feelings,"  and  saved  himself  by  adding  that  it  takes 
"its  origin  from  emotion  recollected  in  tranquillity." 
Poets  do  retain  the  impressions  of  rare  moments, 
and  express  them  at  their  own  time.  But  "the 
passion  of  Wordsworth,"  under  which  title  Wordsworth's 

.  emotional 

I  have  read  an  ingenious  plea  for  it  by  Dr.  Hmits. 
Coan,  was  at  its  best  very  serene,  and  not  of  a  kind 
to  hasten  dangerously  his  heart-beats.  Like  Goethe, 
he  regarded  human  nature  from  without ;  further- 
more, he  studied  by  choice  a  single  class  of  people, 
whose  sensibilities  were  not  so  acute,  say  what  you 
will,  as  those  of  persons  wonted  to  varied  and  dra- 
matic experiences.  The  highest  passion  of  his  song 
was  inspired  by  inanimate  nature;  it  was  a  tide  of 
exaltation  and  worship,  the  yearning  of  a  strong 
spirit  to  be  at  one  with  the  elements.  Add  to  this 
his  occasional  notes  of  feeling  :  the  pathos  of  love  in 
his  thought  of  Lucy  :  — 

"But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 
The  difference  to  me  !  " 

the  pathos  of  broken  comradeship  in  the  quatrain :  — 

"  Like  clouds  that  rake  the  mountain-summits, 
Or  waves  that  own  no  curbing  hand, 


264  THE  FACULTY  DIVINE 

How  fast  has  brother  followed  brother 
From  sunshine  to  the  sunless  land  ! " 

include  also  his  elevated  religious  and  patriotic 
moods,  and  we  have  Wordsworth's  none  too  frequent 
episodes  of  intense  expression. 

All  passion  obtains  relief  by  rhythmic  utterance 
The  quality  *n  music  or  speech ;  it  is  soothed  like 
:Ilng'  Saul  in  his  frenzy  by  the  minstrel  harp  of 
David:  But  the  emotion  which  most  usually  gives 
life  to  poetry  is  not  that  of  fits  of  passion,  but,  as  in 
the  verses  just  quoted,  of  the  universal  moods  em- 
braced in  the  word  "feeling."  Out  of  natural  feel- 
ing, one  touch  of  which  "makes  the  whole  world 
kin,"  come  the  lyrics  and  popular  verse  of  all  na- 
tions ;  it  is  the  fountain  of  spontaneous  song.  Take 
the  poetry  of  this  class  from  Southern  literatures, 
such  as  the  Italian  and  Spanish,  and  you  leave  only 
their  masterpieces.  At  first  thought,  it  seems  more 
passionate  than  our  own,  and  certainly  it  is  more 
sonorous.  But  Anglo-Saxon  words  are  deep  and 
strong,  although  there  is  a  good  deal  of  insularity  in 
the  song  from  "  The  Princess  "  :  — 

"  O  tell  her,  Swallow,  thou  that  knowest  each, 
That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the  South, 
And  dark  and  true  and  tender  is  the  North." 

If  this  be  so,  they  should  wed  indissolubly,  for  each 
voices  of  the  must  be  the  other's  complement.  Scot- 
heart.  tjsn  verse  is  fuii  Of  sentiment,  often  with 

the  added  force  of  pathos.      For  pure  feeling  we  all 


FEELING  265 

carry  in  our  hearts  "  Auld  Lang  Syne,"  "The  Land 
o'  the  Leal,"  Mother-well's  "Jeanie  Morrison,"  and 
"  My  heid  is  like  to  rend,  Willie."  Robert  Burns  is 
first  and  always  the  poet  of  natural  emotion,  and  his 
fame  is  a  steadfast  lesson  to  minstrels  that  if  they 
wish  their  fellow-men  to  feel  for  and  with  them, 
they  must  themselves  have  feeling.  Only  from  the 
depths  of  a  great  soul  could  come  the  stanzas  of 
"Highland  Mary"  and  "To  Mary  in  Heaven."  He 
touches  chords  for  high  and  low  alike  in  the  unsur- 
passable "  Farewell "  :  — 

"  Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly, 
Never  met  or  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted  !  " 

His  lyrics  of  joy,  ambition,  patriotism,  are  all  virile 
with  the  feeling  of  a  brave  and  strong  nature. 

English  emotional  verse  is  more  self-conscious, 
and  often  flooded  with  sentimentalism.  Eng]ish 
Yet  Byron's  fame  rests  upon  his  intensity,  sentiment- 
whether  that  of  magnificent  apostrophes,  or  of  his 
personal  poems,  among  which  none  is  more  genuine 
than  his  last  lyric,  written  upon  completing  his 
thirty-sixth  year.  In  the  Victorian  period  the  regard 
for  art  has  covered  sentiment  with  an  aristocratic 
reserve,  but  Hood  was  a  poet  of  emotion  in  his  beau- 
tiful songs  and  ballads  no  less  than  in  "  The  Bridge 
of  Sighs." 

From  the  middle  register  of  emotion,  poetry  rises 


266  THE  FACULTY  DIVINE 

to  the  supreme,  such  as  that  of  Shelley's  "  Lines  to 
an  Indian  Air,"  or  the  more  spiritual  ecs- 

The  ecstasy 

of  song.  tasv  of  hjs  invocation  to  the  West  Wind: 

"  Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is  : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own  ! 

The  tumult  of  its  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep  autumnal  tone, 

Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit  1     Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one ! " 

Of  recent   English  lyrical  poets  Mrs.  Browning  is 
"DasEwig-     °ne  °f  the  most  impassioned.     Her  lips 

were  touched  with  fire ;  her  songs  were 
magnetic  with  sympathy,  ardor,  consecration.  But 
our  women  poets  of  the  century  usually  have  written 
from  the  heart ;  none  more  so  than  Emma  Lazarus, 
whose  early  verse  had  been  that  of  an  art-pupil,  and 
who  died  young,  —  but  not  before  she  seized  the  harp 
of  Judah  and  made  it  give  out  strains  that  all  too 
briefly  renewed  the  ancient  fervor  and  inspiration. 

Every  note  of  emotion  has  its  varying  organ- 
"  Fin  all  the  stops  \  religious  feeling,  for  instance, 
wiTtuneluf  whether  perfectly  allied  with  music  in 

cloistral  hymns,  or  expressed  objectively 
in  studies  like  Tennyson's  "St.  Agnes"  and  "Sir 
Galahad,"  and  Elizabeth  Lloyd's  "  Milton  in  his 
Blindness,"  or  rising  to  the  eloquent  height  of  Cole- 
ridge's Chamouni  Hymn.  So  it  is  with  martial 
songs  and  national  hymns,  from  Motherwell's  "  Cava- 
lier's Song,"  and  Campbell's  "  Ye  Mariners  of  Eng- 
land," to  the  Marseillaise  hymn,  to  "  My  Maryland  " 


THE   ORGAN-STOPS  OF  LIFE  267 

and  the  "  Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic."  It  is 
the  passion  of  Lowell's  "  Memorial  Odes  "  that  so 
lifts  their  rhythm  and  argument.  With  Poe,  beauty 
was  a  passion,  but  always  hovering  with  Exquisite 
strange  light  above  some  haunted  tomb.  ^,rap*uredd 
Emerson  exhibits  the  intensity  of  joy  as  J( 
he  listens  to  nature's  "  perfect  rune."  On  the  one 
side  we  have  Poe  avowing  that  the  "  tone  "  of  the 
highest  manifestations  of  beauty  is  one  of  sadness. 
"Beauty  of  whatever  kind,"  he  said,  "in  its  supreme 
development,  invariably  excites  the  sensitive  soul  to 
tears."  This  is  the  key-note-of  our  romanticism,  of 
which  there  has  been  no  more  sensitive  exemplar 
than  Poe,  —  Grecian  as  he  was  at  times  in  his  sense 
of  form.  But  far  more  Grecian,  in  temper  and  phi- 
losophy, was  Emerson,  who  found  the  poet's  royal 
trait  to  be  his  cheerfulness,  without  which  "  no  man 
can  be  a  poet,  for  beauty  is  his  aim.  .  .  .  Beauty, 
the  spirit  of  joy  and  hilarity,  he  sheds  upon  the  uni- 
verse." What  diverse  interpretations,  each  a  lesson 
to  those  who  would  limit  the  uncharted  range  of 
feeling  and  art  !  Yet  it  is  easy  to  comprehend  what 
Poe  meant,  and  to  confess  that  mortal  joy  is  less 
intense  of  expression  than  mortal  grief.  And  it  was 
Emerson  himself  who,  in  his  one  outburst  Emerson's 
of  sorrow,  gave  us  the  most  impassioned 
of  American  lyrics,  the  "  Threnody "  for  his  lost 
child,  —  his  "  hyacinthine  boy."  This  free  and 
noble  poem  —  even  for  its  structural  beauty,  so 
uncommon  in  Emerson's  work  —  must  rank  with 


268  THE  FACULTY  DIVINE 

memorable  odes.  But  the  poet's  faith,  thought,  im- 
agination, are  all  quickened  by  his  sorrow,  so  that 
the  "  Threnody  "  is  one  of  the  most  consolatory  as 
well  as  melodiously  ideal  elegies  in  the  language. 
Taken  for  all  in  all,  Whittier,  "our  bard  and 
prophet  best-beloved,"  that  purely  Amer- 


eTJ£.lslcp.  i°an  minstrel,  so  virginal  and  so  impas- 
Ameri«°":  sioned,  at  once  the  man  of  peace  and  the 
poet  militant,  is  the  Sir  Galahad  of  Amer- 
ican song.  He  has  read  the  hearts  of  his  own 
people,  and  chanted  their  emotions,  and  powerfully 
affected  their  convictions.  His  lyrics  of  freedom 
and  reform,  in  his  own  justified  language,  were 
"words  wrung  from  the  nation's  heart,  forged  at 
white  heat."  Longfellow's  national  poems,  with  all 
their  finish,  cannot  rival  the  natural  art  of  Whit- 
tier's  ;  they  lack  the  glow,  the  earnestness,  the  in- 
tense characterization,  of  such  pieces  as  "  Randolph 
of  Roanoke,"  "Ichabod,"  and  "The  Lost  Occa- 
sion." The  Quaker  bard,  besides,  no  less  than 
Longfellow,  is  a  poet  of  sympathy.  Human  feel- 
ing, derived  from  real  life  and  environment,  is  the 
charm  of  "  Snow-Bound,"  even  more  than  its  abso- 
lute transcript  of  nature.  Years  enough  have 
passed  since  it  was  written  for  us  to  see  that, 
within  its  range,  it  is  not  inferior  to  "  The  Deserted 
Village,"  "  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  and  "  Tarn 
O'Shanter." 

Mark  Pattison  justly  declared  that  "  poets  of  the 
first  order  "  always  have  felt  that  "  human  action  or 


BARDS  OF  PASSION  AND   OF  PAIN      269 

passion  "  is  the  highest  theme.  These  are  the  top- 
ics of  Homer,  Dante,  Milton,  Goethe,  Art.shighest 
Hugo.  Dante,  while  perceiving  by  the  theme' 
smiling  of  the  stars,  and  by  the  increasing  beauty  and 
divineness  of  Beatrice,  that  she  is  translating  him 
to  the  highest  spheres,  still  clings  to  his  love  for  the 
woman.  Its  blood-red  strand  connects  his  Paradise 
with  earth.  The  Faust-Margaret  legend  is  human 
to  the  radiant  end.  Rossetti's  "  The  Blessed  Dam- 
ozel"  idealizes  the  naTve  materialism  of  The  human 
the  cathedral  ages.  The  motive  of  that  element 
prismatic  ballad  is  the  deathless  human  passion  of 
the  sainted  maiden.  Her  arms  make  warm  the  bar 
of  Heaven  on  which  she  leans,  still  mortal  in  her 
immortality,  waiting  for  the  soul  of  her  lover.  Such 
is  the  poetic  instinct  that  no  creature  can  be  finer 
in  quality,  however  advanced  in  power,  than  man 
himself ;  that  the  emotions  of  his  soul  are  of  the 
uttermost  account.  Rossetti  was  ever  an  impas- 
sioned poet,  in  whom  were  blended  Northern  and 
Italian  types.  His  series  of  sonnets,  "The  House 
of  Life,"  quivers  with  feeling.  Christina  Rossetti, 
his  sister,  holds  her  eminence  not  by  the  variety  and 
extent  of  her  verse,  but  for  its  emotion  deep  in- 
wrought. Tennyson's  career  indicates  From  youth 
that  the  line  of  advance  for  a  poet  is  '"vfctorSan' 

.  ,  Poets": 

that   of    greater   intensity;   nevertheless,  p-4". 
he  has  furnished  a  typical  example  of  the  national 
repugnance  to  throwing  wide  the  gates  of  that  deep- 
set  but  rugged  castle,  an  English  heart.     His  sense 


270  THE  FACULTY  DIVINE 

of  beauty  and  art  at  first  was  all  in  all,  although 
such  poems  as  "  Locksley  Hall  "  and  "  The  Sisters  " 
—  such  a  line  as  that  from  the  former,  — 

"  And  our  spirits  rushed  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips,"  — 

showed  him  capable  of  taking  up  the  "  Harp  of 
Life."  Throughout  his  long  idyllic  reign,  he  grew 
upon  the  whole  more  impassioned  in  thought  and 
dramatic  conception,  —  yet  the  proof  of  this  is  not 
found  in  his  dramas,  but  in  portions  of  "  In  Memo- 
riam,"  in  powerful  studies  like  "  Lucretius "  and 
"  Rizpah,"  and  in  the  second  part  of  "  Locksley 
Hall."  Great  poets  confront  essentials  as  they  ap- 
proach their  earthly  resolution. 

Thus  far  I  have  referred  only  to  the  emotion  of 
The  objective  ^he  poet's  own  soul,  often  the  more  in- 
fmpaLsionld  tense  and  specific  from  its  limits  of  range. 
The  creative  masters  give  us  all  the  hues 
of  life's  "dome  of  many-colored  glass,"  as  caught 
from  their  interior  points  of  view.  What  is  life  but 
the  speech  and  action  of  us  all,  under  stress  of  count- 
less motives  and  always  of  that  blind  emotion  which 
Schopenhauer  termed  the  World-Will  ?  It  is  at  the 
beck  of  the  strong  invoker  that  these  modes  of 
feeling  come  arrayed  for  action,  and  not  in  single 
spies,  but  far  more  various  than  the  passions  which 
Collins's  Muse  drew  around  her  cell.  Such  are  the 
throes  of  Homer's  personages  within  and  without 
the  walls  of  Troy.  The  intense  and  natural  emo- 


MAWS  ARMORED  SOUL  2/1 

tion  of  Priam  and  Achilles,  of  Hector  and  Andro- 
mache and  Helen,  has  made  them  imperishable. 
The  heroic  epics  have  gone  with  their  ages,  and  for 
every  romantic  and  narrative  poem  we  have  a  hun- 
dred novels  ;  but  the  drama  remains,  with  its  range 
for  the  display  of  passion's  extreme  types.  The 
keen  satisfaction  we  take  in  an  exhibi-  See  page  103. 
tion,  not  of  the  joy  and  triumph  alone,  but  of  the 
tragedy,  the  crime,  the  failure  of  lives  that  ape  our 
own,  is  not  morbid,  but  elevating.  We  know  by 
instinct  that  they  are  right  who  declare  all  passion 
good  per  se ;  we  feel  that  it  is  a  good  servant  if  a 
bad  master,  and  bad  only  when  it  goes  awry,  and 
that  the  exhibition  of  its  force  both  enhances  and 
.instructs  the  force  within  each  soul  of  us.  Again, 
the  poet  who  broods  on  human  passion  Exaltation, 
and  its  consequent  action  attains  his  highest  crea- 
tive power  :  he  rises,  as  we  say,  at  each  outbreak 
and  crisis,  and  the  actor  impersonating  his  concep- 
tion must  rise  accordingly,  or  disappoint  the  audi- 
ence which  knows  that  such  culminations  are  his 
opportunities,  above  the  realistic  level  of  a  well-con- 
ceived play.  More  than  all,  and  as  I  have  suggested 
in  a  former  lecture,  the  soul  looks  tran-  Intense 
quilly  on,  knowing  that  it,  no  more  than  j^Tnc'e'the 
its  prototypes,  can  be  harmed  by  any  mis-  worthoflife- 
chance.  "  Agonies  "  are  merely  "  its  changes  of 
garments."  They  are  forms  of  experience.  The 
soul  desires  all  experiences  ;  to  touch  this  planetary 
life  at  all  points,  to  drink  not  of  triumph  and  delight 


2/2  THE  FACULTY  DIVINE 

alone  ;  it  needs  must  drain  its  portion  of  anguish, 
failure,  wrong.  It  would  set,  like  the  nightingale, 
its  breast  against  the  thorn.  Its  greatest  victory  is 
when  it  is  most  agonized.  When  all  is  lost,  when 
the  dark  tower  is  reached,  then  Childe  Roland 
dauntless  winds  his  blast  upon  the  slug-horn.  Its 
arms  scattered,  its  armor  torn  away,  the  soul,  "the 
victor-victim,"  slips  from  mortal  encumbrance  and 
soars  freer  than  ever.  Victor  atque  victima>  atque 
ideo  victor  quia  victima.  This  is  the  constant  lesson 
of  the  lyrics  and  plays  and  studies  of  Browning,  the 
most  red-blooded  and  impassioned  of  modern  dra- 
matic poets  ;  a  wise  and  great  master,  whose  imagi- 
nation, if  it  be  less  strenuous  than  his  insight  and 
feeling,  was  yet  sufficient  to  derive  from  history  and 
experience  more  types  of  human  passion  than  have 
been  marshalled  by  any  compeer.  I  have  been  struck 
by  a  critic's  quotation  of  a  passage  from  Beyle  (writ- 
ten in  1817)  which  says  that,  after  centuries  of  arti- 
ficiality, it  must  be  the  office  of  the  coming  artist 
to  express  "states  of  soul,"  —  that  that  is  what  a 
Michelangelo  would  do  with  modern  sculpture.  In 
truth  the  potent  artist,  the  great  poet,  is  he  who 
makes  us  realize  the  emotions  of  those  who  expe- 
rience august  extremes  of  fortune.  For  what  can 
be  of  more  value  than  intense  and  memorable  sen- 
sations ?  What  else  make  up  that  history  which 
alone  is  worth  the  name  of  life  ? 

The  most  dramatic  effects  are  often  those  which 
indicate  suppressed  passion  —  that  the  hounds  are 


DRAMATIC  INTENSITY  273 

ready  to  slip  the  leash.  These  are  constantly  uti- 
lized by  Browning ;  they  characterize  the  Reserved 
Puritan  repression  in  Hawthorne's  ro-  pow"- 
mances  and  Mrs.  Stoddard's  novels,  and  the  weird 
power  of  Emily  Bronte's  "  Wuthering  Heights."  In 
the  drama,  above  all,  none  but  a  robustious  periwig- 
pated  fellow  is  expected  to  "  tear  a  passion  to  tat- 
ters." Nor  can  dramatic  heights  be  of  frequent 
occurrence :  they  must  rise  like  mountains  from  a 
plain  to  produce  their  effect,  and  even  then  be 
capped  with  clouds  —  must  have  something  left  un- 
told. A  poem  at  concert-pitch  from  first  to  last  is 
ineffective.  See  with  what  relief  of  commonplace 
or  humor  Shakespeare  sets  off  his  supreme  crises : 
the  banter  with  Osric  before  the  death  of  Hamlet ; 
the  potter  and  babble  of  the  peasant  who  brings  the 
aspic  to  Cleopatra.  In  the  silent  arts,  as  in  nature, 
the  prevailing  mood  is  equable,  and  must  be  caught. 
The  picture  on  your  walls  that  displays  nature  in 
her  ordinary  mien,  and  not  in  a  vehement  and  excep- 
tional phase,  is  the  one  which  does  not  weary  you. 
But  poetry,  with  its  time-extension,  has  Truenaturai_ 
the  freedom  of  dramatic  contrasts  —  of  lsm- 
tranquillity  and  passion  according  to  nature's  own 
allotment.  With  this  brave  advantage,  naturalism 
is  ignoble  which  restricts  itself  to  the  ordinary,  and 
is  indeed  grossly  untrue  to  our  life,  at  times  so  con- 
centrated and  electric. 

The  ideal  of  dramatic  intensity  —  that  is,  of  ima- 
gined  feeling —  is  reached  when  the  expression  is  as 


2/4  THE  FACULTY  DIVINE 

inevitable  as  that  of  a  poet's  outburst  under  stress 
Absolute  dra-  °^  personal  emotion.  You  are  conscious, 
matic  passion.  £or  exampie)  that  one  must  endure  a  loss 

as  irreparable  as  that  which  Cowper  bemoaned,  be- 
fore he  can  realize  the  pathos  and  beauty  of  the 
monody  "  On  the  Receipt  of  my  Mother's  Pic- 
ture":— 

"  O  that  those  lips  had  language  !     Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last." 

But  you  also  feel,  and  as  strongly,  that  only  one  who 
has  been  agonized  by  the  final  surrender,  whether  to 
violence  or  death,  of  an  adored  child,  can  fully  com- 
prehend that  passionate  wail  of  Constance  bereft  of 
Arthur :  — 

"  Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 
Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me, 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form  ; 
Then  have  I  reason  to  be  fond  of  grief." 

Shakespeare's  dramas  hold  the  stage,  and  if  his 
stronger  characters  are  not  impersonated  so  fre- 
quently as  of  old,  they  are  still  the  chief  rdles  of 
great  actors,  and  are  supported  with  a  fitness  of  de- 
tail unattained  before.  The  grand  drama,  then,  is 
the  most  efficient  form  of  poetry  in  an  unideal  period 
to  conserve  a  taste  for  something  imaginative  and 
Modem  impassioned.  But,  with  a  public  bred  to 
equanimity.  reserve,  our  new  plays  and  poems  on  the 
whole  avoid  extremes  of  feeling,  which,  alike  in  life 


ACTION  AND  REACTION  2/5 

and  literature,  are  not  "good  form."  What  we  do 
accept  is  society  drama,  chiefly  that  which  turns 
upon  the  Parisian  notion  of  life  as  it  is.  But  whether 
the  current  drama,  poetic  or  otherwise,  reflects  life 
as  it  is,  is  a  question  upon  which  I  do  not  enter.  I 
have  referred  to  the  lack  of  passion  in  modern 
poetry.  The  minor  emotions  are  charmingly,  if 
lightly,  expressed.  Humor,  for  instance,  is  given  a 
play  almost  Catullian ;  and  that  Mirth  is  a  feeling, 
if  not  a  passion,  is  the  lyrical  justification  of  some 
of  our  felicitous  modern  song.  Many  of  our  poets 
realize  that  we  have  rounded  a  beautiful  but  too  pro- 
longed idyllic  period ;  they  amuse  themselves  with 
idly  touching  the  strings,  while  awaiting  some  new 
dispensation  —  the  stimulus  of  a  motive,  the  exam- 
ple of  a  leader.  Emotion  cannot  be  always  sus- 
tained ;  there  must  be  intervals  of  rest.  But  each 
generation  desires  to  be  moved,  to  be  thrilled ;  and 
they  are  mistaken  who  conceive  the  poetic  imagina- 
tion to  be  out  of  date  and  minstrelsy  a  foible  of  the 
past. 

As  it  is,  we  hear  much  talk,  on  the  part  of  those 
observers  whose  business  it  is  to  record  Anidleout. 
the  movement  of  a  single  day,  about  the  cry- 
decline  of  ideality.     Whenever  one  of  the  elder  lu- 
minaries goes  out,  the  cry  is  raised,  Who  will  there 
be  to  take  his  place  ?     What  lights  will  be  left  when 
the  constellation  of  which  he  was  a  star  shall  have 
vanished  ?     The  same  cry  has  gone  up  from  every 
generation  in  all  eras.     Those  who  utter  it  are  like 


276  THE  FACULTY  DIVINE 

water-beetles  perceiving  only  the  ripples,  compre- 
hending little  of  the  great  waves  of  thought  and 
expression,  upon  which  we  are  borne  along.  The 
truth  is  that,  alike  in  savagery  and  civilization,  there 
never  is  a  change  from  stagnation  to  life,  from  bond- 
age to  freedom,  from  apathy  to  feeling  and  passion, 
that  does  not  beget  its  poets.  At  such  a  period  we 
have  the  making  of  new  names  in  sang,  as  surely  as 
deeds  and  fame  in  great  wars  come  to  men  unknown 
before.  It  is  true  that  the  greatest  compositions,  in 
all  the  arts,  are  usually  produced  at  culminating 
epochs  of  national  development.  But  the  period  of 
that  eminent  group,  the  "  elder  American  poets," 
surely  has  not  been  that  of  our  full  development. 
Theirs  has  been  the  first  inspiring  rise  of  the  foot- 
hills, above  which  —  after  a  stretch  of  mesa,  or  even 
a  slight  descent  —  range  upon  range  are  still  to  rise 
before  we  reach  that  culminating  sierra-top  whose 
height  none  yet  can  measure.  Throughout  this 
mountain-climbing,  every  time  that  a  glowing  and 
original  poet  appears,  his  art  will  be  in  vogue  again. 

Now,  is  such  a  poet  the  child  of  his  period,  or 
does  he  come  as  if  by  warrant  and  create 

When  comes  * 

the  poet.  an  environment  for  himself?  From  the 
first  it  seemed  to  me  a  flaw  in  the  armor  of  Taine, 
otherwise  our  most  catholic  exponent  of  the  princi- 
ples of  art,  that  he  did  not  allow  for  the  irrepressi- 
bleness  of  genius,  for  the  historic  evidence  that  now 
and  then  "God  lets  loose  a  man  in  the  world."  Such 


GENIUS  277 

a  man,  it  is  true,  must  be  of  ingrained  power  to  over- 
come an  adverse  situation  ;  his  very  originality  will 
for  a  long  time,  as  in  the  recent  cases  of  Words- 
worth and  Browning,  stand  in  his  way,  even  if  in 
the  end  it  secures  for  him  a  far  more  exceeding 
crown  of  glory.  If  the  situation  is  ripe  for  him, 
then  his  course  is  smooth,  his  work  is  instantly 
recognizable.  First,  then,  the  poet  is  needed.  He 
must  possess,  besides  imaginative  and  emotional  en- 
dowments, the  special  gifts  which,  how-  TheFacult 
ever  cultivable,  come  only  at  birth  —  "  the  Divine' 
vision  and  the  faculty  divine,"  and  a  certain  strong 
compulsion  to  their  exercise.  But  these  gifts,  under 
such  compulsion,  constitute  what  we  mean  by  the 
poet's  genius. 

In  our  age  of   distributed  culture,  it  has  become 
a   matter   of   doubt  —  even   among   men  Genius. 
reared   upon   the    Shorter    Catechism  —  «?h?£i£d 
whether  there  is  any  predestination  and  8'ftofGod-" 
foreordination  of  the  elect  in  art,  literature,  or  ac- 
tion.    Many  deem  this  a  superstition  which  has  too 
long   prevailed.      That    it    has    impressed   mankind 
everywhere   and    always   is  a  matter  of   record.      I 
have  much  faith  in  a  universal  instinct ;   and  I  be- 
lieve that  I  still  have  with  me  the  majority  even  of 
modern  realists,  and  that  the  majority  is  right,  in 
refusing  to  discredit  the  gift  of  high  and  exceptional 
qualities  to  individuals  predestined  by  heredity  or 
otherwise,  and  I  believe    that   without   this  gift  — 
traditionally  called   genius  —  no   poet   has  afforded 


2/8  THE  FACULTY  DIVINE 

notable  delight  and  service.  I  know  that,  men  of 
genius  often  waive  their  claim ;  that  Buffon  said 
genius  was  "but  long -continued  patience";  that 
Carlyle  wrote,  it  "  means  transcendent  capacity  for 
taking  trouble,  first  of  all  "  ;  that  one  eminent  mod- 
ern writer,  though  in  a  passing  mood,  announced  : 
"  There  is  no  '  genius ' ;  there  is  only  the  mastery 
which  comes  to  natural  aptitude  from  the  hardest 
study  of  any  art  or  science."  But  these  are  the 
surmises  of  men  whose  most  original  work  comes 
from  them  so  easily  that  they  do  not  recognize  the 
value  of  the  gift  that  makes  it  natural.  They  hon- 
estly lay  more  stress  upon  the  merit  of  the  hard 
labor  which  genius  unconsciously  drives  them  to 
undertake.  I  say  "drives  them,"  and  call  to  mind 
Lowell's  acute  distinction  :  "  Talent  is  that  which  is 
in  a  man's  power ;  genius  is  that  in  whose  power  a 
man  is."  Carlyle's  whole  career  proves  that  he  sim- 
ply wished  to  recognize  the  office  laid  upon  genius 
of  taking  "  infinite  trouble."  His  prevailing  tone  is 
unmistakable:  "Genius,"  he  says,  "is  the  inspired 
gift  of  God."  "  It  is  the  clearer  presence  of  God 
Most  High  in  a  man;"  and  again,  "Genius,  Poet,  do 
we  know  what  those  words  mean  ?  An  inspired 
Soul  once  more  vouchsafed  to  us,  direct  from  Na- 
ture's own  fire-heat,  to  see  the  Truth,  and  speak  it, 
or  do  it."  His  whole  philosophy  of  sway  by  divine 
right  is  a  genius-worship.  Even  Mr.  Howells's 
phrase,  "natural  aptitude,"  if  raised  to  the  highest 
power,  is  a  recognition  of  something  behind  mere 


TALENT  279 

industry.  It  is  what  forces  the  hero,  the  artist,  the 
poet,  to  be  absorbed  in  a  special  office,  and  decides 
his  choice  of  it.1 

The   world    is   equipped   with    steadfast    workers 
whose  natural  taste  and  courageous,  stren-  Talent  and 

executive 

uous  labor  do  not  lift  them  quite  above  service, 
the  mediocre.  The  difference  between  these,  the 
serviceable  rank  and  file,  and  the  originative  leaders, 
is  one  of  kind,  not  of  degree.  However  admirable 
their  skill  and  service  in  time  become,  they  do  not 
get  far  apart  from  impressions  common  to  us  all. 
We  cannot  dispense  with  their  army  in  executive 
and  mechanical  fields  of  action.  It  is  a  question 
whether  they  are  so  essential  to  arts  of  taste  and 
investigation  ;  to  philosophy,  painting,  music  ;  to 
the  creative  arts  of  the  novelist  and  poet.  But  with 
respect  to  these,  it  would  be  most  unjust  to  con- 
found them  with  the  upstarts  whose  condign  sup- 

1  Nothing  of  late  has  seemed  apter  than  a  criticism  of  the  Saturday 
Review  upon  certain  outgivings  of  the  academicians,  Sir  Frederick 
Leighton  and  Sir  John  Millais,  quite  in  the  line  of  the  industrial  theory 
from  which  the  present  writer  is  dissenting.  The  reviewer,  comment- 
ing upon  these  didactic  paradoxes,  asserts  that  all  the  truth  which  is 
in  them  amounts  to  just  this :  "  That  the  intuitive  perceptions  and 
rapidity  of  combination  which  constitute  genius,  whether  in  action  or 
speculation,  in  scientific  discovery  or  inventive  art  or  imaginative 
creation,  open  out  so  many  new  problems  and  ideas  as  to  involve  in 
their  adjustment  and  development  the  most  arduous  labor  and  the 
most  unwearied  patience.  But  without  the  primal  perception  the 
labor  will  be  vanity  and  the  patience  akin  to  despair.  Perhaps  it  is 
important  to  keep  in  mind  that  labor  without  the  appropriate  capacity 
is  even  more  fruitless  than  aptitude  without  industry." 


280  THE  FACULTY  DIVINE 

pression  is  a  desirable  thing  for  both  the  public  and 
themselves,  —  claimants  really  possessed  of  less  than 
Pretension.  ordinary  sense.  Such  is  the  fool  of  the 
family  who  sets  up  for  a  "genius"  ;  the  weakling  of 
the  borough,  incapable  of  practical  work,  or  too  lazy 
to  follow  it,  but  with  a  fondness  for  fine  things  and 
a  knack  of  imitating  them.  S.uch  are  the  gadflies  of 
every  art,  pertinaciously  forcing  themselves  upon 
attention,  and  lowering  their  assumed  crafts  in  the 
esteem  of  a  community. 

It  is  wise  to  discriminate,  also,  between  genius 
Taste  as  anc*  natura^  fineness  of  taste.  The  latter, 
from"frtisticd  joined  with  equally  natural  ambition,  has 
gemus.  made  many  a  life  unhappy  that  had  pecu- 

liar opportunities  for  delight.  For  surely  it  is  a 
precious  thing  to  discern  and  enjoy  the  beautiful. 
Taste  in  art,  in  selection,  in  conduct,  is  the  charm 
that  makes  for  true  aristocracy,  a  gift  unspoiled  but 
rather  advanced  by  gentle  breeding,  a  grace  in  man, 
and  adorable  in  woman  ;  it  is  something  to  rest  con- 
tent with,  the  happier  inasmuch  as  you  add  to  the 
happiness  of  others.  It  is  the  nimbus  of  many 
a  household,  beautifying  the  speech  and  bearing  of 
the  members,  who,  if  they  are  wise,  realize  that 
their  chief  compensation  is  a  more  tranquil  study 
and  possession  of  the  beautiful  than  the  fates  allot 
to  those  who  create  it.  Hephaistos,  the  grim,  sooty, 
halt  artificer  of  all  things  fair,  found  small  comfort 
even  in  the  possession  of  Aphrodite,  the  goddess  who 
inspired  him.  The  secret  of  happiness,  for  a  refined 


TA  STE  —  EN  DO  WMENT  28 1 

nature,  is  a  just  measure  of  limitations.  Taste  is 
not  always  original,  creative.  There  are  no  more 
pathetic  lives  than  the  lives  of  those  who  know  and 
love  the  beautiful,  and  who  surrender  its  enjoyment 
in  a  vain  struggle  to  produce  it.  Their  failures 
react  upon  finely  sensitive  natures,  and  often  end  in 
sadness,  even  misanthropy,  and  disillusionment  when 
the  best  of  life  is  over. 

Men  of  talent  and  experience  do  learn  to  concen- 
trate their   powers  on   certain  occasions,   Fortunate 
and  surprise  us  with  strokes  like  those  of  moments- 
genius.      That   is  where   they   write    "  better   than 
they  can,"  as  our  Autocrat  so  cleverly  has  put  it. 
But    such    efforts   are   exhausting   and   briefly  sus- 
tained.    I  know  it  is  said  that  genius  also  expires 
when  its  work  is  done ;  but  who  is  to  measure  its 
reservoir  of  force,  or  to  gauge  the  unseen   current 
which  replenishes  it  ? 

That  there    is   something  which    comes   without 
effort,  yet  impels  its  possessor  to  heroic  Congenitai 
labor,  is  immemorially  verified.1     It  whis-  gift- 
pered  melodies  to  Mozart  almost   in   his   boyhood, 
made  him  a  composer  at  five,  —  at  seven  the  author 
of  an  opus,  four  sonatas  for  piano  and  violin  ;  and  it 
so  drew  him  on  to  victorious  industry,  that  he  as- 
serted in  after  life :   "No  one  has  taken  such  pains 
with  the  study  of  composition  as  I !  "     It  made  the 

1  The  cases  of  Mozart  and  Dickens,  with  others  equally  notable, 
were  cited  by  the  writer  in  an  extended  paper  on  Genius,  which  was 
published  several  years  ago. 


282  THE   FACULTY  DIVINE 

child  Clairon,  as  she  refused  to  learn  to  sew,  cry 
out  under  brutal  punishment :  "  Kill  me  !  You  had 
better  do  so,  for  if  you  don't  I  shall  be  an  actress ! " 
Dickens  declared  that  he  did  not  invent  his  work  : 
"I  see  it,"  he  said,  "and  write  it  down."1  Sidney 
Lanier,  in  nervous  crises,  would  seem  to  hear  rich 
music.  It  was  an  inherited  gift.  Thus  equipped 
with  a  rhythmical  sense  beyond  that  of  other  poets, 
he  turned  to  poetry  as  to  the  supreme  art.  Now, 
the  finer  and  more  complex  the  gift,  the  longer  exer- 
cise is  needful  for  its  full  mastery.  He  strove  to 
make  poetry  do  what  painting  has  done  better,  and 
to  make  it  do  what  only  music  hitherto  has  done. 
If  he  could  have  lived  three  lives,  he  would  have 
adjusted  the  relations  of  these  arts  as  far  as  possible 
to  his  own  satisfaction.  I  regard  his  work,  striking 
as  it  is,  as  merely  tentative  from  his  own  point  of 
view.  It  was  as  if  a  discoverer  should  sail  far  enough 
to  meet  the  floating  rock-weed,  the  strayed  birds, 
the  changed  skies,  that  betoken  land  ahead ;  should 
even  catch  a  breath  of  fragrance  wafted  from  out- 

1  Hartmann's  scientific  definition,  which  I  cited  in  a  former  lecture, 
—  "  Genius  is  the  activity  and  efflux  of  the  intellect  freed  from  the 
domination  of  the  conscious  Will,"  —  finds  its  counterpart  in  the  state- 
ment by  F.  W.  H.  Myers,  concerning  the  action  of  the  "  Subliminal 
Consciousness."  This,  Mr.  Myers  says,  has  to  do  with  "the  initiation 
and  control  of  organic  processes,  which  the  conscious  will  cannot 
reach.  .  .  .  Perhaps  we  seldom  give  the  name  of  genius  to  any  piece 
of  work  into  which  some  uprush  of  subliminal  faculty  has  not 
entered."  (See  the  Journal  of  the  Society  for  Psychical  Research, 
February,  1892.) 


ORIGINALITY  283 


lying  isles,  and  then  find  his  bark  sinking  in  the 
waves  before  he  could  have  sight  of  the  promised 
continent. 

In  our  day,  when  talent  is  so  highly  skilled  and 
industry  so  habitual,  people  detect  the  originality, 
genius  of  a  poet  or  tale-writer  through  its  original- 
ity, perhaps  first  of  all.  It  has  a  different  note,  even 
in  the  formative  and  imitative  period,  and  it  soon 
has  a  different  message,  —  perhaps  one  from  a  new 
field.  The  note  is  its  style ;  the  message  involves 
an  exhibition  of  creative  power.  Genius  does  not 
borrow  its  main  conceptions.  As  I  have  said,  it  re- 
veals a  more  or  less  populous  world  of  which  it  is 
the  maker  and  showman.  Here  it  rises  above  taste, 
furnishing  new  conditions,  to  the  study  of  which 
taste  may  profitably  apply  itself.  It  is  neither  pas- 
sion nor  imagination,  but  it  takes  on  the  one  and 
makes  a  language  of  the  other.  Genius  Transfigura- 
of  the  universal  kind  is  never  greater  tlon' 
than  in  imparting  the  highest  interest  to  good  and 
ordinary  and  admirable  characters  ;  while  a  limited 
faculty  can  design  only  vicious  or  eccentric  person- 
ages effectively,  depending  on  their  dramatic  villainy 
or  their  grotesqueness  for  a  hold  upon  our  interest. 
V6ron  has  pointed  out  this  inferiority  of  Balzac  and 
Dickens  to  Shakespeare  and  Moliere — and  he  might 
have  added,  to  Thackeray  also.  In  another  way  the 
genius  of  many  poets  is  limited,  —  that  of  Rossetti, 
of  Poe,  for  example, —  poets  of  few,  though  striking, 
tones  and  of  isolated  temperaments.  Genius  of  the 


284  THE  FACULTY  DIVINE 

more  universal  type  is  marked  by  a  sound  and  healthy 
Sanity.  judgment.  You  may  dismiss  with  small 

respect  the  notion  of  Fairfield,  Lombroso,  and  their 
like,  that  genius  is  the  symptom  of  neurotic  disorder 
— that  all  who  exhibit  it  are  more  or  less  mad.  This 
generalization  involves  a  misconception  of  the  term  ; 
they  apply  it  to  the  abnormal  excess,  the  morbid 
action,  of  a  special  faculty,  while  true  genius  con- 
sists in  the  creative  gift  of  one  or  more  faculties  at 
the  highest,  sustained  by  the  sane  cooperation  of 
the  possessor's  other  physical  and  mental  endow- 
wisdom.  ments.  Again,  what  we  term  common 
sense  is  the  genius  of  man  as  a  race,  the  best  of 
sense  because  the  least  ratiocinative.  Nearly  every 
man  has  thus  a  spark  of  genius  in  the  conduct  of 
life.  A  just  balance  between  instinct,  or  under- 
standing, and  reason,  or  intellectual  method,  is  true 
wisdom.  It  requires  years  for  a  man  of  constructive 
talent  —  a  writer  who  forms  his  plans  in  advance  — 
for  such  a  man  to  learn  to  be  flexible,  to  be  obedient 
to  his  sudden  intuitions  and  to  modify  his  design 
obedience  to  accordingly.  You  will  usually  do  well  to 
the  vision.  follow  a  clew  that  comes  to  you  in  the 
heat  of  work  —  in  fact,  to  lay  aside  for  the  mo- 
ment the  part  which  you  had  designed  to  complete 
at  once,  and  to  lay  hold  of  the  new  matter  before 
that  escapes  you.  The  old  oracle,  Follow  thy 
Spontaneity,  genius,  holds  good  in  every  walk  of  life. 
Everything,  then,  goes  to  show  that  genius  is  that 
force  of  the  soul  which  works  at  its  own  seemingly 


HEAL  TH  —  SPONTANEITY—  INSIGHT       285 

capricious  will  and  season,  and  without  conscious 
effort ;  that  its  utterances  declare  what  is  learned 
by  spiritual  and  involuntary  discovery  :  — 

"  Vainly,  O  burning  Poets ! 
Ye  wait  for  his  inspiration, 
Even  as  kings  of  old 
Stood  by  Apollo's  gates. 
Hasten  back,  he  will  say,  hasten  back 
To  your  provinces  far  away  ! 
There,  at  my  own  good  time. 
Will  I  send  my  annver  to  you." 


Yes,  the  spontaneity  of  conception,  which  alone 
gives  worth  to  poetry,  is  a  kind  of  revela-  Revelation 
tion  —  the  imagery  of  what  genius  per-  iwfeft. 
ceives  by  Insight.  This  sense  has  little  to  do  with 
reason  and  induction ;  it  is  the  inward  light  of  the 
Quaker,  the  a  priori  guess  of  the  scientist,  the  pro- 
phetic vision  of  the  poet,  the  mystic,  the  seer.  If  it 
be  direct  vision,  it  should  be  incontrovertible.  In 
occult  tradition  the  higher  angels,  types  of  absolute 
spirit,  were  thought  to  know  all  things  by  this  pure 
illumination  :  — 

"  There,  on  bright  hovering  wings  that  tire 

Never,  they  rest  them  mute, 

Nor  of  far  journeys  have  desire, 

Nor  of  the  deathless  fruit ; 

For  in  and  through  each  angel  soul 
All  waves  of  life  and  knowledge  roll, 
Even  as  to  nadir  streams  the  fire 
Of  their  torches  resolute." 


286  THE  FACULTY  DIVINE 

While  this  is  a  bit  of  Preraphaelite  mosaic,  it  is  not 
too  much  to  say  of  the  essentially  poetic  soul  that  at 
times  it  becomes,  in  Henry  More's  language,  — 

"  One  orb  of  sense,  all  eye,  all  airy  ear ;  " 

that  it  seems  to  have  bathed,  like  Ayesha,  in  central 
and  eternal  flame ;  or,  after  some  preexistence,  to 
have  undergone  the  lustration  to  which,  in  the  sixth 
^Eneid,  we  find  the  beclouded  spirits  subjected  :  — 

"  Donee  longa  dies,  perfecto  temporis  orbe, 
Concretam  exemit  labem,  purumque  relinquit 
Aetherium  sensum  atque  aurai  simplicis  ignem."  1 

At  such  times  its  conclusions  are  as  much  more  in- 
fallible than  those  worked  out  by  logic  as  is  the  off- 
hand pistol-shot  of  the  expert,  whose  weapon  has 
become  a  part  of  his  hand,  than  the  sight  taken 
along  the  barrel.  It  makes  the  leopard's  leap,  with- 
out reflection  and  without  miss.  I  think  it  was 
Leigh  Hunt  who  pointed  out  that  feeling  rarely 
makes  the  blunders  which  thought  makes.  Applied 
to  life,  we  know  that  woman's  intuition  is  often  wiser 
than  man's  wit. 

The  clearness  of  the  poet's  or  artist's  vision  is  so 
The  artist's       much   beyond   his    skill   to  reproduce  it, 

noble  dis-  .  .   , 

content.  and  so  increases  with  each  advance,  that 

he   never  quite    contents    himself  with   his  work. 


i  <«  -pill  Time's  great  cycle  of  long  years  complete 

Clears  the  fixed  taint,  and  leaves  the  ethereal  sense 
Pure,  a  bright  flame  of  unmixed  heavenly  air." 

Crunch's  Translation. 


1NSP1RA  TION  287 


Hence  the  ceaseless  unrest  and  dissatisfaction  of 
the  best  workman.  His  ideal  is  constantly  out  of 
reach,  —  a  "lithe,  perpetual  escape." 

From  the  poet's  inadequate  attempts  at  expres- 
sion countless  myths  and  faulty  statements  have 
originated.  Still,  he  keeps  in  the  van  of  discovery, 
and  has  been  prophetic  in  almost  every  kind  of 
knowledge,  —  evolution  not  excepted,  —  and  from 
time  immemorial  in  affairs  that  constitute  history. 
This  gave  rise,  from  the  first,  to  a  belief  in  the 
direct  inspiration  of  genius.  Insight  de-  inspiration, 
rives,  indeed,  the  force  of  inspiration  from  the 
sense  that  a  mandate  of  utterance  is  laid  upon  it. 
To  the  ancients  this  seemed  the  audible  command 
of  deity.  "  The  word  of  the  Lord  came  unto  me, 
saying,"  —  "  Thus  saith  the  Lord  unto  me,"  —  "  So 
the  spirit  lifted  me  up  and  took  me  away,  and  I 
went  in  bitterness,  in  the  heat  of  my  spirit,  but  the 
hand  of  the  Lord  was  strong  upon  me,"  —  such 
were  the  avowals  of  one  of  the  greatest  poets  of  all 
time.  The  vision  of  Ezekiel  and  the  compulsion  to 
declare  it  have  been  the  inspiration  of  Theprophet5C 
the  prophetic  bard,  of  the  impassioned  gift- 
lyric  poet,  almost  to  our  own  day.  His  time  has 
passed.  We  cannot  have,  we  do  not  need,  another 
Ezekiel,  another  Dante  or  Milton.  Hugo,  the  last 
Vates,  was  the  most  self-conscious,  and  his  own 
deity.  A  vision  of  the  wisdom  and  beauty  of  art 
has  inspired  much  of  the  superior  poetry  of  recent 
times.  A  few  prophetic  utterances  have  been  heard, 


288  THE  FACULTY  DIVINE 

evoked  in  some  struggle  of  humanity,  some  battle 
for  liberty  of  belief  or  nationality  or  conduct.  Yet 
I  doubt  not  that,  whenever  a  great  cause  is  in  pro- 
gress,—  before  its  culminating  triumph,  rather  than 
after,  —  it  will  have  its  impassioned  and  heroic  min- 
strelsy. The  occasion  will  seek  out  and  inspire  its 
poet. 

But  he  must  believe  in  his  prophecy,  and  as 
indispensa-  something  greater  than  himself,  though 
biiuy  of  Faith.  indomitably  believing  in  himself  as  the 

one  appointed  to  declare  it.  Reflecting  upon  the 
lack  of  originality,  of  power,  of  what  we  may  con- 
sider tokens  of  inspiration,  in  so  much  of  our  most 
beautiful  latter-day  song,  I  suspect  that  it  is  not  due 
alone  to  the  diversion  of  effort  in  many  new  fields 
of  action  and  expression,  but  also  to  a  general  doubt 
of  the  force  and  import  of  this  chief  art  of  expres- 
sion, —  even  to  the  modern  poet's  own  distrust  in 
its  significance.  The  higher  his  gift  and  training, 
the  more  he  seems  affected  by  the  pleasant  cynicism 
which  renders  him  afraid,  above  all,  of  taking  him- 
self and  his  craft  "  too  seriously."  This  phrase 
itself  is  the  kind  of  chaff  which  he  most  dreads  to 
incur.  Now,  I  have  just  spoken  of  the  wisdom  of 
recognizing  one's  limitations,  but  if  one  has  proved 
that  he  has  a  rare  poetic  gift,  I  think  that  he 
scarcely  can  take  it  and  himself  too  seriously.  The 
poets  of  our  language  and  time  who  have  gained  the 
most  distinction  —  such  as  Tennyson,  Browning, 


FAITH  289 

Longfellow,  Arnold,  Emerson  —  have  taken  them- 
selves very  seriously  indeed ;  have  refused  to  go 
after  strange  gods,  and  have  done  little  but  to  make 
poetry  or  to  consider  matters  demanding  the  higher 
exercise  of  thought  and  ideality.  Doubtless  poets 
are  born  nowadays  as  heretofore,  though  nature  out 
of  her  "  fifty  seeds "  may  elect  to  bring  not  even 
"  one  to  bear."  But  some  who  exhibit  the  most 
command  of  their  art,  and  in  truth  a  genuine  faculty, 
are  very  shy  of  venturing  beyond  the  grace  and  hu- 
mor and  tenderness  of  holiday  song. 

I  think  that  such  a  condition  might  be  expected 
to  exist  during  the  unsettled  stage  of  con-  cynicism, 
viction  now  affecting  our  purpose  and  imagination. 
There  is  no  lack  of  desire  for  a  motive,  but  an  honest 
lack  of  motive,  —  a  questioning  whether  anything  is 
worth  while,  —  a  vague  envy,  perhaps,  of  the  superb 
optimism  of  our  scientific  brethren,  to  whom  the 
material  world  is  unveiling  its  splendors  as  never 
before,  and  to  whom,  as  they  progress  so  steadfastly, 
everything  seems  worth  while. 

I  remember  an  impressive  lyric,  perhaps  the  finest 
thing  by  a  certain  American  writer.  Its  title,  "  What 
is  the  Use?"  was  also  the  burden  of  his  song.  He 
took  his  own  refrain  so  much  to  heart  that,  although 
he  still  lives  according  to  its  philosophy,  there  are 
only  a  few  of  us  who  pay  meet  honor  to  him  as  a 
poet. 

Distinction  ever  has  been  achieved  through  some 
form  of  faith,  and  even  the  lesser  poets  have  won 


290  THE  FACULTY  DIVINE 

their  respective  measures  of  success,  other  things 
Faith  of  some    being  equal,  in  proportion  to  their  amount 

kind  the  stay 

of  aii  true  art.  of  trust  in  certain  convictions  as  to  their 
art,  themselves,  and  "  the  use  of  it  all."  The  serene 
forms  of  faith  in  deity,  justice,  nationality,  religion, 
human  nature,  which  have  characterized  men  of  the 
highest  rank,  are  familiar  to  you.  Such  faiths  have 
been  an  instinct  with  sovereign  natures,  from  the 
Hebraic  sense  of  a  sublime  Presence  to  the  polemic 
belief  of  Bunyan  and  Milton.  Homer  cheerfully 
recognizes  the  high  gods  as  the  inspirers  and  regu- 
lators of  all  human  action.  Dante's  faith  in  the 
ultimate  union  of  perfect  beauty  and  perfect  holi- 
ness was  intense,  and  his  conviction  in  the  doom  of 
the  ignoble  was  so  absolute  that  he  felt  himself  com- 
missioned to  pronounce  and  execute  it.  Shake- 
speare made  no  question  of  the  divinity  that  doth 
hedge  a  king  ;  he  believed  in  institutions,  in  sover- 
eignty, in  the  English  race.  His  tranquil  accept- 
ance of  the  existing  order  of  things  had  no  later 
parallel  until  the  century  of  Goethe  and  Emerson 
and  Browning.  Byron  and  Shelley  invoked  political 
and  religious  liberty,  and  believed  in  their  own  cru- 
sade against  Philistia.  Hugo  and  his  band  were 
leaders  in  a  lifelong  cause ;  they  carried  a  banner 
with  "  Death  to  tradition "  upon  it.  The  underly- 
ing motive  of  all  strenuous  and  enthusiastic  move- 
ment, in  art  or  poetry,  is  faith.  Gautier  and  Musset 
concerned  themselves  with  beauty  and  romantic  pas- 
sion ;  Clough  and  Arnold,  with  philosophy  and  feel- 


FAITH'S  MASTERPIECE  291 

ing  :  all  were  poets  and  knights-errant  according  to 
their  respective  tempers  and  nationalities.  And  so 
we  might  go  on  indefinitely,  without  invalidating  the 
statement  that  some  kind  of  faith,  with  its  resulting 
purpose,  has  engendered  all  poetry  that  is  notewor- 
thy for  beauty  or  power.  True  art,  of  every  class, 
thrives  in  an  affirmative  and  motive-breeding  atmos- 
phere. It  is  not  the  product  of  cynicism,  pessi- 
mism, or  hopeless  doubt.  I  do  not  mean  "  the  hon- 
est doubt  "  which  Tennyson  sets  above  "  half  the 
creeds."  The  insatiate  quest  for  light  is  nobler  than 
a  satisfied  possession  of  the  light  we  have.  The 
scientific  unsettlement  of  tradition  is  building  up  a 
faith  that  we  are  obtaining  a  new  revelation,  or,  at 
least,  opening  our  eyes  to  a  continuous  one. 

But  without  surmising  what  stimulants  to  imagi- 
native expression  may  be  afforded  here-  A  crowning 

.....  .  masterpiece  of 

after,  let  me  refer  to  a  single  illustration  faith, 
of  the  creative  faith  of  the  poet.     For  centuries  all 
that  was  great  in  the  art  and  poetry  of  Christendom 
grew  out  of  that  faith.     What  seems  to  me  its  most 
poetic,  as  well  as  most  enduring,  written  product,  is 
not,  as  you  might  suppose,  the  masterpiece  of  a  sin- 
gle mind,  —  the  "  Divina  Commedia,"  for  instance, 
—  but  the  outcome  of  centuries,  the  expression  of 
many  human   souls,    even    of   various   peoples   and 
races.     Upon  its  literary  and  constructive  side,  I  re- 
gard the  venerable  Liturgy  of  the  historic  The  church 
Christian  Church  as  one  of  the  few  world-  Llturgy- 
poems,  the   poems  universal.     I  care  not  which  of 


2Q2  THE  FACULTY  DIVINE 

its  rituals  you  follow,  the  Oriental,  the  Alexandrian, 
the  Latin,  or  the  Anglican.  The  latter,  that  of  an 
Episcopal  Prayer-Book,  is  a  version  familiar  to  you 
of  what  seems  to  me  the  most  wonderful  symphonic 
idealization  of  human  faith,  —  certainly  the  most  in- 
clusive, blending  in  harmonic  succession  all  the  cries 
and  longings  and  laudations  of  the  universal  human 
heart  invoking  a  paternal  Creator. 

I  am  not  considering  here  this  Liturgy  as  divine, 
its  universal  though  much  of  it  is  derived  from  what 
quality.  multitudes  accept  for  revelation.  I  have 

in  mind  its  human  quality ;  the  mystic  tide  of  human 
hope,  imagination,  prayer,  sorrows,  and  passionate 
expression,  upon  which  it  bears  the  worshipper  along, 
and  wherewith  it  has  sustained  men's  souls  with 
conceptions  of  deity  and  immortality,  throughout 
hundreds,  yes,  thousands,  of  undoubting  years.  The 
Orient  and  Occident  have  enriched  it  with  their 
finest  and  strongest  utterances,  have  worked  it  over 
and  over,  have  stricken  from  it  what  was  against  the 
consistency  of  its  import  and  beauty.  It  has  been 
A  growth.  a  growth,  an  exhalation,  an  apocalyptic 
cloud  arisen  "  with  the  prayers  of  the  saints  "  from 
climes  of  the  Hebrew,  the  Greek,  the  Roman,  the 
Goth,  to  spread  in  time  over  half  the  world.  It  is 
The  voice  the  voice  of  human  brotherhood,  the 

of  human 

brotherhood,  blended  voice  of  rich  and  poor,  old  and 
young,  the  wise  and  the  simple,  the  statesman  and 
the  clown ;  the  brotherhood  of  an  age  which,  know- 
ing little,  comprehending  little,  could  have  no  refuge 


"  THE   CRY  OF  THE  HUMAN"  293 

save  trust  in  the  oracles  through  which  a  just  and 
merciful  Protector,  a  pervading  Spirit,  a  living  Medi- 
ator and  Consoler,  had  been  revealed.     This  being 
its  nature,  and  as  the  crowning  masterpiece  of  faith, 
you  find  that  in  various  and  constructive  beauty  — 
as  a  work  of  poetic  art  —  it  is  unparalleled.     It  is 
lyrical  from  first  to  last  with  perfect  and  its  symphonic 
melodious  forms  of   human   speech.     Its  perl 
chants  and  anthems,  its  songs  of  praise  and  hope 
and   sorrow,  have   allied   to  themselves   impressive 
music  from  the  originative  and   immemorial   past, 
and  the  enthralling  strains  of   its   inheritors.     Its 
prayers  are  not  only  for  all  sorts  and  conditions  of 
men,  but    for  every  stress   of   life  which  mankind 
must  feel  in  common  —  in  the  household,  or  isolated, 
or  in  tribal  and  national  effort,  and  in  calamity  and 
repentance  and  thanksgiving.     Its  wisdom  is  forever 
old  and  perpetually  new ;  its  calendar  celebrates  all 
seasons  of  the  rolling  year ;  its  narrative  is  of  the 
simplest,  the  most  pathetic,  the  most  rapturous,  and 
most  ennobling  life  the  world  has  known.     There  is 
no  malefactor  so  wretched,  no  just  man  so  perfect, 
as  not  to  find  his  hope,  his  consolation,  his  lesson, 
in  this  poem  of  poems.     I  have  called  it  lyrical ;  it 
is  dramatic  in  structure  and  effect ;  it  is  an  epic  of 
the  age  of  faith  ;  but  in  fact,  as  a  piece  of     without  a 
inclusive  literature,  it  has  no  counterpart,     paral 
and  can  have  no  successor.     Time  and  again  some 
organization  for  worship  and   instruction,  building 
its  foundations  upon  reason  rather  than  on  faith,  has 


294  THE  FACULTY  DIVINE 

tried  to  form  some  ritual  of  which  it  felt  the  need. 
But  such  a  poem  of  earth  and  heaven  is  not  to  be 
made  deliberately.  The  sincere  agnostic  must  be 
content  with  his  not  inglorious  isolation ;  he  must 
barter  the  rapture  and  beauty  and  hope  of  such  a  lit- 
urgy for  his  faith  in  something  different,  something 
compensatory,  perchance  a  future  and  still  more 
world-wide  brotherhood  of  men. 

Until  this  new  faith,  or  some  fresh  interpretation 
Tenebrae.  of  past  belief,  becomes  vital  in  action,  be- 
comes more  operative,  the  highest  flight  of  poetry 
will  be  timidly  essayed.  The  songs  of  those  who 
are  crying,  "  They  have  taken  away  my  Lord,  and  I 
know  nofwhere  they  have  laid  him  ! "  will  be  little 
else  than  tenebrae  —  cries  out  of  the  darkness,  im- 
passioned, it  may  be,  but  hardly  forceful  or  creative. 
Arnold  and  ^  have  spoken  of  Arnold  and  Clough,  the 
conspicuously  honest,  noble,  intellectual 
poets  of  the  transition  period.  Just  as  far  as  their 
faith  extended,  their  verse  rests  firmly  in  art  and 
beauty,  love,  and  nobility  of  purpose.  But  much  of 
it  comes  from  troubled  hearts  ;  its  limits  are  indi- 
cated by  a  spirit  of  unrest  —  limits  which  Arnold 
was  too  sure  and  fine  a  self -critic  not  to  perceive ; 
so  that,  after  he  had  reached  them,  — which  was  not 
until  he  had  given  us  enduring  verse,  and  shown 
how  elevated  was  his  gift,  —  he  ceased  to  sing,  and 
set  himself  resolutely  to  face  the  causes  of  his  un- 
rest, and  to  hasten,  through  his  prose  investigations, 


DOUBT  BEFORE  DA  WN  295 

the  movement  toward  some  new  dawn  of  knowledge- 
brightened  faith. 

A  few  verses  from  his  "  Dover  Beach  "  are  in  the 
key  of  several  of  his  most  touching  lyrics,  The  troubled 
—  in   the  varying   measure  so  peculiarly  heart> 
his  own,  —  utterances  of  a  feeling  which  in  the  end 
seems  to  have  led  him  to  forego  his  career  as  a  poet : 
"The  sea  of  faith,"  he  plains, — 

"  Was  once,  too,  at  the  full,  and  round  earth's  shore 
Lay  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  furl'd. 
But  now  I  only  hear 
Its  melancholy,  long,  withdrawing  roar, 
Retreating,  to  the  breath 
Of  the  night-wind,  down  the  vast  edges  drear 
And  naked  shingles  of  the  world. 

"  Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 
To  one  another !  for  the  world,  which  seems 
To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams, 
So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new, 
Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,  nor  light, 
Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for  pain ; 
And  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain 
Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and  flight, 
Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night." 

Doubtless  Arnold's  reserve  intensified  this  sad- 
ness. Clough  equally  felt  the  perturbed  spirit  of 
his  time ;  but  he  had  a  refuge  in  a  bracing  zest  for 
life  and  nature,  which  so  often  made  the  world  seem 
good  to  him,  and  not  designed  for  naught. 

In  time  our  poets  will  acquire,  with  the  new  learn- 
ing  and   the   more  humane   and   critical  The  new  day. 
theology,  the  health  and  optimism  in  which  a  note- 


296  THE   FACULTY  DIVINE 

worthy  art  must  originate  if  at  all.     As  for  the  new 
learning  — 

"  Say,  has  the  iris  of  the  murmuring  shell 
A  charm  the  less  because  we  know  full  well 
Sweet  Nature's  trick  ?    Is  Music's  dying  fall 
Less  finely  blent  with  strains  antiphonal 
Because  within  a  harp's  quick  vibratings 
We  count  the  tremor  of  the  spirit's  wings  ? 
There  is  a  path  by  Science  yet  untrod 
Where  with  closed  eyes  we  walk  to  find  out  God. 
Still,  still,  the  unattained  ideal  lures, 
The  spell  evades,  the  splendor  yet  endures ; 
False  sang  the  poet,  —  there  is  no  good  in  rest, 
And  Truth  still  leads  us  to  a  deeper  quest." 

For  one,  I  believe  that  the  best  age  of  imaginative 
production  is  not  past;  that  poetry  is  to  retain,  as  of 
old,  its  literary  import,  and  from  time  to  time  to 
prove  itself  a  force  in  national  life ;  that  the  Con- 
cord optimist  and  poet  was  sane  in  declaring  that 
"the  arts,  as  we  know  them,  are  but  initial,"  that 
"sooner  or  later  that  which  is  now  life  shall  be 
poetry,  and  every  fair  and  manly  trait  shall  add  a 
richer  strain  to  the  song." 

And  now,  after  all  that  has  been  said  in  our  con- 
Thoughtsin  sideration  of  the  nature  of  poetry,  and  al- 
conciusion.  though  this  has  been  restricted  closely  to 
its  primal  elements,  I  am  sensible  of  having  merely 
touched  upon  an  inexhaustible  theme  ;  that  my  com- 
ments have  been  only  "  words  along  the  way." 
Meanwhile  the  press  teems  with  criticism,  our  time 


A   PARTING    WORD  297 

is  alert  with  debate  in  countless  private  and  public 
assemblies  respecting  almost  every  verse  of  all  re- 
nowned poets,  ancient  or  contemporary  ;  texts  and 
editions,  even  if  relatively  less  in  number  compared 
with  the  varied  mass  of  publications,  are  multiplied 
as  never  before,  and  readers  —  say  what  you  may  — 
are  tenfold  as  many  as  in  the  prime  of  the  elder 
American  minstrels.  The  study  of  poetry  has  stim- 
ulated other  literary  researches.  Yet  the  best  thing 
that  I  or  any  one  can  say  to  you  under  these  con- 
ditions is  that  a  breath  of  true  poetry  is  worth  a 
breeze  of  comment ;  that  one  must  in  the  end  make 
his  own  acquaintance  with  its  examples  and  form  his 
judgment  of  them.  Read  the  best ;  not  the  imita- 
tions of  imitations.  Each  of  you  will  find  that  with 
which  he  himself  is  most  in  touch,  and  therewith  a 
motive  and  a  legend — petere  altiora.  The  poet's 
verse  is  more  than  all  the  learned  scholia  upon  it. 
He  makes  it  by  direct  warrant ;  he  produces,  and  we 
stand  by  and  often  too  complacently  measure  his 
productions.  In  no  wise  can  I  forget  that  we  are 
regarding  even  the  lowliest  poets  from  our  still 
lower  station  ;  we  are  like  earth-dwellers  viewing, 
comparing,  mapping  out  the  stars.  Whatsoever 
their  shortcomings,  their  gift  is  their  own ;  they 
bring  music  and  delight  and  inspiration.  A  singer 
may  fail  in  this  or  that,  but  when  he  dies  the  charm 
of  his  distinctive  voice  is  gone  forever. 


ANALYTICAL   INDEX 


ANALYTICAL   INDEX 


ACADEMIC,  THE,  revolts  against, 
and  rise  of  new  schools,  148, 
150,  151 ;  cause  of  its  despo- 
tism, 1 57  ;  value  of  its  stan- 
dards, 159;  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds, 161,  162. 

Action,  of  the  drama,  105 ;  de- 
fended by  Arnold,  133 ;  as  the 
poet's  theme,  268. 

Actor,  the,  271. 

Adam  Bede,  Mrs.  Cross,  137. 

Addison,  101,  250. 

"  Adonais,"  Shelley,  90,  124. 

Mneid,  The,  Vergil,  91-93,  212, 
286. 

yEschylus  and  the  Greek  drama, 
98,99  ;  and  see  46,  169,  240,  251. 

jEstheticism,  less  artistic  than 
emotion,  262. 

./Esthetics,  Poe  on  Beauty  and 
Taste,  26 ;  Berkeleian  theory  of, 
148,  149 ;  Veron,  in  his  L'&s- 
thetique,  152,  157  ;  and  see 
Beauty  and  Taste. 

Affectation  of  feeling,  262. 

"  Agincourt,"  Drayton,  94. 

Agnosticism,  the  sincere,  294. 

Alastor,  Shelley,  124. 

Alcaeus,  87. 

Alcestis,  Euripides,  99. 

Alexandrian  Library,  168. 


Alexandrian  Period,  the  Sicilian 
style,  89,  90. 

Alfieri,  128,  133. 

Allegory,  of  Dante,  Spencer,  and 
Bunyan,  114;  and  see  249. 

America,  theory  of  her  institu- 
tions, 3  ;  American  quality 
should  pervade  our  native  po- 
etry and  sculpture,  200 ;  now 
on  trial,  229. 

American  Poetry,  Longfellow  and 
his  mission,  91 ;  its  fidelity  to 
Nature,  195;  its  "elemental" 
feeling,  252-254  ;  Whittier  and 
Longfellow,  268;  the  "elder 
American  poets,"  276,  297  ;  and 
see  225,  242. 

American  School.  See  American 
Poetry. 

Amiel,  135;  quoted,  196. 

Anacreon,  93. 

Analytic  Poetry,  Browning,  108 ; 
Browning's  method  compared 
with  Shakespeare's,  etc.,  191, 
192  ;  and  see  80. 

Ancient  Mariner,  The  Rime  of  the, 
Coleridge,  81,  125. 

Anna  Karfnina,  Tolstoi,  137. 

Anthology,  the  Greek,  88,  169, 
183;  the  Latin,  92. 

Anthropomorphism,    the    artists' 


302 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


true  conception  of  deity,  222, 
223. 

Antique,  the,  classical  conception 
of  poetry  and  the  poet,  17-19; 
illustrated  by  Guido's  Aurora, 
29,  by  Homer's  "  Vision,"  ib.  ; 
comprehension  of  nature's 
rythm,  52  ;  sculpture,  63 ;  an- 
cient classification  of  poetry, 
76 ;  spirit  of  an  Athenian  audi- 
ence, 79 ;  classicism  of  Keats 
and  Landor,  124;  in  modern 
Italian  poetry,  128;  Arnold's 
early  subjection  to,  133,  134; 
Schlegel  on,  134;  our  compen- 
sation for  its  loss,  139,  143  ;  the 
Academic,  1 57 ;  perfection  of, 
159;  its  simplicity,  175,  176; 
expression  of  its  own  time,  199 ; 
informing  yet  objective  view  of 
nature,  207,  208  ;  English  "  clas- 
sical" style,  213;  genius  for 
configuration,  242 ;  the  pagan 
supernaturalism,  243  ;  unison  of 
passion  and  art,  262 ;  Emer- 
son's philosophy,  267  ;  and  see 
Hellenism. 

Arabian  Nights,  The,  Galland's, 
Payne's  and  Burton's  transla- 
tions, 82  ;  and  see  193. 

Architecture,  served  by  the  other 
arts,  64;  Japanese,  La  Farge 
on,  163. 

Ariosto,  112. 

Aristophanes,  and  the  drama,  99 ; 
and  see  79,  88,  190. 

Aristotle,  his  view  of  the  nature 
of  poetry,  17-19;  relations  to 
Plato,  21 ;  and  see  27. 

Arnim,  118. 


Arnold,  E.,  82,  235. 

Arnold,  M.,  as  Goethe's  pupil,  19 ; 
poetry  as  a  criticism  of  life,  27, 
28;  "  Thyrsis,"  90;  conflict  of 
his  critical  theory  with  his  own 
genius,  133-135;  preface  to  his 
second  edition,  133,  and  poems 
conforming  to,  133,  134;  sub- 
jective lyrics,  134;  tempera- 
ment and  career,  135 ;  his  se- 
lections from  Wordsworth,  172 ; 
on  the  Wordsworthians,  219; 
his  beauteous  unrest,  294 ; 
quoted,  118,  194,  295;  and  see 
162,  218,  289,  290. 

"Ars  Victrix,"  Dobson,   quoted, 

»73- 
Art,  substructural  laws  of,  6,  7 ; 

consensus  and  differentiation  of 
its  modes,  50 ;  it  must  have 
Me,  70 ;  "  Art  for  Art's  sake," 
129,  167  ;  its  beauteous  para- 
dox, 181  ;  not  artifice,  201 ; 
Goethe  and  Haydon,  ib.  ;  has  a 
truth  of  its  own,  202 ;  cause  of 
our  delight  in,  ib.  ;  vice  nullifies 
the  force  of,  216;  its  absolute 
liberty,  220 ;  the  artist's  labor 
a  natural  piety,  221  ;  artistic 
nonconformity,  222  ;  the  artist's 
God,  222,  223 ;  God  the  master- 
artist,  ib.  ;  clearness  and  reten- 
tive faculty  of  the  musician  and 
painter,  232-234,  —  of  the  poet, 
234,  235 ;  heightened  by  pas- 
sion, 262  ;  must  express  states 
of  soul,  272 ;  repose  and  true 
naturalism,  273 ;  and  modern 
inspiration,  287  ;  its  best  atmos- 
phere, 291  ;  and  see  Artistic 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


303 


Qualify,  The  Fine  Arts,  Com- 
posite Art,  etc. 

Arte  of  English  Poesie,  The,  Put- 
tenham,  198. 

Artificiality,  48,  177. 

Artisanship,  226. 

Artistic  Dissatisfaction,  286. 

Artistic  Quality,  heightened  by 
passion,  128;  extreme  recent 
finish,  129,  130;  often  in  excess 
of  originality,  131 ;  Swinburne's, 
132. 

Art  Life,  the,  studio  and  table 
talk,  12  ;  and  see  221-223. 

Art  School,  the,  recent  charac- 
teristics of,  130,  131 ;  of  the 
Nineteenth  Century,  173;  the 
minor,  235. 

Arts,  the  fine,  their  practical 
value,  14;  consensus  of,  15; 
music,  painting,  etc.,  as  com- 
pared with  poetry,  63-72  ;  Les- 
sing's  canon,  66  ;  the  "  speech- 
less "  arts  normally  objective, 
80 ;  must  express  the  beautiful, 
147  ;  illustrative  of  poetry,  155; 
a  Japanese  at  the  Art  Students' 
League,  165;  and  see  Archi- 
tecture, Music,  Painting,  Sculp- 
ture. 

Aryan  Literature,  87. 

Association,  250. 

"  Astrophel,"  Spenser,  90. 

Atalanta  in  Calydon,  Swinburne, 
132. 

Auerbach,  B.,  novelist,  137. 

"Auld  Lang  Syne,"  Burns,  264. 

"  Auld  Robin  Gray,"  Lady  Bar- 
nard, 194. 

Aurora  Leigh,  Mrs.  Browning,  237. 


Ausonius,  169. 

Austen,  Jane,  novelist,  138. 

BACON,  on  Poetry,  23;  quoted, 
203  ;  and  see  57. 

Balder  Dead,  Arnold,  134,  135. 

Ballads,  early  English,  94 ;  Thack- 
eray's, 215  ;  and  see  194. 

Balzac,  quoted,  34;  and  see  137, 
283. 

Banville,  Th.  de,  35,  131,  158. 

Barnard,  Lady,  quoted,  194. 

Bascom,  J.,  critic,  20. 

"  Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic," 
Mrs.  Howe,  267. 

Baudelaire,  133. 

Beauty,  proclaimed  the  sole  end 
of  Poetry,  by  Schlegel  and  Poe, 
26  ;  poetry  as  an  expression  of, 
46-48  ;  its  arbiter,  Taste,  47  ; 
false  standards  of,  48 ;  consid- 
ered as  an  element  in  poetry 
and  cognate  arts,  147—185 ;  its 
expression  an  indispensable 
function,  147 ;  recurrent  deni- 
als of  its  indispensability,  147 
et  seq.  ;  these  are  merely  re- 
volts against  hackneyed  stan- 
dards, 148,  150,  151,  158;  its 
immortal  changefulness,  148 ; 
whether  it  is  a  chimera,  148, 
1 52  -  1 58  ;  this  theory  purely 
Berkeleian,  and  repulsive  to 
the  artistic  instinct,  149,  155; 
the  "  transcendental  "  contempt 
for,  149  ;  Emerson's  recognition 
of,  149 ;  impressionism  merely 
a  fresh  search  for,  1 50 ;  exists  in 
some  guise  in  every  lasting  work 
of  art,  151  ;  the  new  ./Esthetics, 


304 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


as  set  forth  by  E.  Veron,  152, 
153;  its  truth  and  its  fallacies, 
ib.  et  seq.  ;  derives  specific 
character  from  its  maker's  in- 
dividuality, 152,  153;  what  B. 
really  is,  -viz.,  a  quality  regu- 
lating the  vibratory  expression 
of  substances,  153-155;  all  im- 
pressions of  it  unite  in  spiritual 
feeling,  154;  moral  and  phys- 
ical analogous,  154;  perception 
of  it  is  subjective,  155 ;  its  qual- 
ity objective,  ib. ;  its  connec- 
tion with  the  perfection  of  na- 
ture and  the  fitness  of  things, 
156,  with  utility,  ib.  ;  the  nat- 
ural quality  of  all  things,  156; 
recognized  intuitively  by  the 
poet,  1 57  ;  unconsciously  postu- 
lated even  by  Veron,  1 57  ;  dan- 
ger of  irreverence  for,  1 58 ;  na- 
tional and  racial  ideals  of,  159- 
165;  the  Grecian,  159;  of  the 
Renaissance,  160 ;  zest  for,  as- 
sociated with  novelty,  ib. ;  the 
English  academic  standard, 
161  ;  antipodal  conceptions  of, 
the  Japanese,  162-165  ;  specific 
evolution  of,  164;  not  fully 
transferable  by  translation,  etc., 
166;  essential  to  the  endurance 
of  a  poem,  or  other  work  of  art, 
166-173;  considered  here  in 
the  concrete,  167 ;  symbolizes 
Truth  in  pure  form,  168;  the 
poet's  instinct  for,  ib.  ;  has  con- 
served the  choicest  part  of  an- 
cient poetry,  ib. ;  its  effect  in 
the  poetry  of  our  own  tongue, 
170-172  ;  present  revival  of  love 


for,  172,  173 ;  its  concrete  po- 
etic elements,  173-180;  of  mel- 
ody and  scriptural  effect,  174; 
of  construction,  174;  of  sim- 
plicity, 175;  of  variety,  176;  of 
naturalness,  176;  of  decoration 
and  detail,  177;  psychical,  177, 
178  ;  of  the  pure  lyric,  178-180  ; 
of  Charm,  179,  180;  of  the  sug- 
gestion of  Evanescence,  181- 
185;  what  is  meant  by  its  unity 
with  Truth,  187,  188,  220-224  ; 
and  sadness,  267;  and  see  75; 
also  Aesthetics,  Taste,  etc. 

Berkeleianism,  as  applied  to  po- 
etry and  the  arts,  15. 

Berkeley,   his    ideal    philosophy, 

149.  155- 

Beyle,  M.  H.  (Stendhal),  quoted, 
272. 

Bible,  Poetry  of  the,  82-87  ;  the 
Hebraic  genius,  83  ;  racial  ex- 
altation of,  83,  84 ;  intense  per- 
sonal feeling  of  the  Psalmists, 
etc.,  84,  85 ;  naivete  and  uni- 
versality, 85  ;  Book  of  Job,  86  ; 
Esther  and  Ruth,  87,  175;  sub- 
limity of,  244;  its  "elemental" 
quality,  251  ;  and  see  55,  191, 
194. 

Bion,  90. 

"  Bishop  Blougram's  Apology," 
Browning,  109. 

Bizarre,  The,  158. 

Blackmore,  novelist,  157. 

Blake,  W.,  quoted,  233;  genius 
of,  ib. ;  and  see  58,  1 58,  238, 
250. 

Blank  Verse,  English,  the  no- 
blest dramatic  measure,  105. 


305 


Bleak  House,  Dickens,  137. 

"Blessed  Damozel,  The,"  Ros- 
setti,  269. 

Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon,  A,  Brown- 
ing, no. 

Boccaccio,  57,  101. 

Boileau,  18. 

Boner,  J.  H.,  quoted,  242. 

Bonnat,  L.  J.  F.,  artist,  9. 

Brahmanism.     See  Orientalism. 

Breadth,  a  mark  of  superiority  in 
portraying  life  and  nature,  191. 

Bride  of  Lammermoor,  The,  Scott, 

*37- 

"Bridge  of  Sighs,  The,"  Hood, 
265. 

Bridges,  R.,  179;  song  by,  quoted, 
185- 

Bronte,  Charlotte,  137. 

Bronte,  Emily,  137,  273. 

Browning,  his  use  of  rhyme,  56; 
the  master  of  analytic  and  psy- 
chological drama,  108-110;  in- 
dividuality of,  108 ;  how  his 
work  is  subjective,  109 ;  meth- 
od of,  ib. ;  Swinburne  on,  ib. ; 
dramatic  lyrics  and  monologues, 
ib.  ;  compared  with  Shake- 
speare, 109,  no;  and  the  stage, 
1 10 ;  his  statement  of  the  po- 
et's art,  24 ;  as  a  critical  ideal- 
ist, 169;  as  a  dramatist,  191, 
192 ;  his  nature-touches,  192, 
193;  as  a  thinker  and  moral- 
ist, 213;  his  estimate  of  Shel- 
ley, 219;  his  types  of  passion, 
272  ;  originality  of,  277  ;  quoted, 
197 ;  and  see,  35,  42,  60,  69, 
136,  142,  215,  288,  290. 

Browning,  Mrs.,  passion  and  beau- 


ty of  her  self-expression,  128; 
compared  with  Sappho,  88 ; 
"  Aurora  Leigh,"  237 ;  and  see 
4,  177,  266. 

Bryant,  W.  C.,  his  broad  manner, 
194,  195 ;  elemental  mood  of, 
252;  quoted,  237;  and  see  129, 
210. 

Bucolic  verse.  See  Greek  Bucolic 
Poets,  Nature,  Idyllic  Poets,  etc. 

Buddhism.     See  Orientalism. 

Buffon,  on  Genius,  278. 

Bull,  Lucy  C.,  a  child's  recogni- 
tion of  Poetry,  124. 

Biilow,  H.  von,  musician,  232. 

Bunyan,  52,  290. 

Burns,  his  spontaneity,  120;  quo- 
ted, 265;  and  see  135,  172,  173, 
190,  195,  250,  255. 

Burroughs,  J.,  62. 

Burton,  R.  F.,  translator,  82. 

Butcher,  S.  H.,  translator,  82. 

Byron,  chief  of  the  English  Ro- 
mantic School,  19  ;  view  of  Po- 
etry, ib. ;  estimate  of  Pope,  ib. ; 
considered,  120-123;  the  typi- 
cal subjective  poet,  121 ;  his 
"Childe  Harold,"  121;  voice 
of  his  period,  122,  123;  "Don 
Juan,"  123;  compared  with 
Shelley,  124;  compared  with 
Heine,  125,  126;  his  unrest  as 
a  poet  of  nature,  203 ;  influ- 
enced by  Coleridge,  238,  239 ; 
imaginative  language  of,  241  ; 
quoted,  206,  244 ;  and  see  58, 
60,  119,  142,  173,  195,  226,  251, 
263,  290. 

CABANEL,  A.,  painter,  9. 


306 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


Calderon,  79,  100,  101. 

Callimachus,  Elegiacs  on  Hera- 
cleitus,  89. 

Camoens,  79,  101,  112,  244. 

Campbell,  266. 

Canning,  G.,  94. 

Carlyle,  on  inspiration,  23,  24 ; 
cited,  196;  and  see  58. 

Carr,  J.  W.  C.,  cited,  68. 

Catholicity,  220. 

Catullus,  92,  155,  169. 

Cavalier  Poets,  168. 

"Cavalier's  Song,"  Motherwell, 
266. 

Cellini,  B.,  artist,  167,  247. 

Cenci,  The,  Shelley,  69,  124. 

Cervantes,  79,  101,  191. 

Chapman,  G.,  on  poetry,  18. 

Characterization,  dramatic,  105; 
the  novelist,  237. 

Charm,  of  the  perfect  lyric,  179- 
182;  of  Evanescence,  181,  185. 

Chatterton,  250,  255. 

Chaucer,  as  a  poet  of  the  beauti- 
ful, 170;  his  imagination,  249; 
and  see  115,  131,  215. 

"  Chevy  Chase,"  258. 

Childe  Harold,  Byron,  121. 

"  Childe  Roland,"  Browning,  109, 
272. 

"Children  in  the  Wood,  The," 
quoted,  194. 

Chinese  literature,  81. 

Christabel,  Coleridge,  125,  238, 
248. 

Christendom,  Poetry  of,  its  char- 
acteristics, 79;  transfer  of  the 
Oriental  spirit,  82 ;  its  epic 
masterpieces,  112-118;  its  po- 
etry of  Faith,  291 ;  and  see  243. 


Christendom,  The  Muse  of.  See 
A.  Durer. 

Christianity,  contrasted  with  Pa- 
ganism, 139-143;  effect  of  its 
introspection  and  sympathy 
upon  poetry,  139  et  seq.  ;  "  The 
Muse  of  Christendom,"  140, 
141 ;  its  sublime  seriousness, 
143 ;  and  see  1 12  et  seq. 

Church,  Christian,  the  mediaeval, 
140. 

Cicero,  believer  in  inspiration,  22. 

Citation  of  Shakespeare,  The,  Lan- 
dor,  125. 

Clairon,  actress,  282. 

Classicism,  in  France,  18,  120; 
tribute  to  Prof.  Gildersleeve, 
100;  pseudo,  144,  199,  200;  of 
Queen  Anne's  time,  213;  mod- 
ern, 225  ;  and  see  The  Academic 
and  The  Antique. 

Classification  of  the  poetic  Orders, 
76. 

Clearness  of  the  artistic  vision, 
232. 

Cleopatra,  Haggard  and  Lang,  89. 

Cloister  and  the  Hearth,  The, 
Reade,  137. 

Clouds,  The,  Aristophanes,  190. 

Clough,  A.  H.,  and  Arnold's 
"  Thyrsis,"  90 ;  his  unrest,  294 ; 
zest  of,  295 ;  and  see  135,  290. 

Coan,  T.  M.,  on  "the  passion  of 
Wordsworth,"  263. 

Coleridge,  H.,  quoted,  256. 

Coleridge,  S.  T.,  his  instinct  for 
beauty,  20 ;  concord  with  Words- 
worth as  to  poetry,  imagination, 
science,  20,  28  ;  genius  of,  125  ; 
how  moved  by  Nature,  202 ; 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


307 


"Ancient  Mariner,"  236;  height 
and  decline  of  his  imagination, 
238,  239;  mastery  of  words, 
241 ;  cited,  81  ;  quoted,  101 ; 
and  see  27,  58,  119,  142,  162, 
170,  173,  226,  245,  248,  266. 

Collins,  Mortimer,  quoted,  97. 

Collins,  W.,  142, 172, 184,  250,  270. 

"Colonial"  Revival,  the  recent, 
160,  161. 

Comedy,  Aristophanes  and  Mo- 
liere,  99,  100;  Terence  and 
Plautus,  loo. 

Commonplace,  its  use  as  a  foil, 
273 ;  and  see  Didacticism. 

Common  Sense,  284. 

Comparison,  250. 

Complexity,  undue,  175. 

Composite  Art,  76,  164. 

Composite  Period,  the  new,  136. 

Comus,  Milton,  236. 

Conception,  spontaneity  of,  285  ; 
and  see  imagination. 

Configuration,  of  outline,  imagery, 
etc.,  242. 

Conscious  Thought,  147. 

Consensus  of  the  Arts,  50,  163, 
199. 

Construction,  poetic  architecture, 
174;  of  plot, etc.,  174-176;  may 
be  decorated,  177;  of  a  sus- 
tained work,  178;  imaginative, 
237  ;  of  the  Elizabethan  drama- 
tists, 243  ;  and  see  4. 

Contemplative  Poetry,  Words- 
worth's, 219;  and  see  Truth, 
Didacticism,  etc. 

Cook,  A.  S.,  editor  of  Sidney's 
Defense,  23. 

Cooper,  J.  F.,  novelist,  137. 


Corot,  painter,  246. 

"  Correctness  "  in  Art,  162. 

Cory's  paraphrase  on  Callima- 
chus,  89;  "  Mimnermus,"  183. 

Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  The, 
Burns,  268. 

Counterpoint,  musical,  64. 

Couture,  painter,  10 ;  quoted,  142. 

Cowper,  142, 173, 190, 214;  qucted, 
274. 

Cranch,  C.  P.,  quoted,  286. 

Creative  Eras.     See  Objectivity. 

Creative  Faculty,  shared  by  the  ar- 
tist with  his  Maker,  44,  45 ;  the 
modern,  exercised  upon  prose 
fiction,  137,  138 ;  secret  of  its 
genius,  163  ;  Shakespeare's 
pure,  230;  its  divinity,  234;  of 
the  pure  imagination,  237  ;  as 
godlike,  254-258 ;  men  as  gods, 
256 ;  imagined  types  of  pas- 
sion, 270  ;  and  see  Objectivity, 

Creative  Quality.    See  Objectivity. 

Criticism,"  applied,"  distinguished 
from  pure,  8 ;  poets  as  critics, 
12  ;  not  iconoclastic,  16;  recent 
analytic  study  of  poetry  by  the 
public,  41 ;  with  respect  to  mod- 
ern culture,  59,  60  ;  by  law,  80 ; 
sometimes  to  be  deprecated, 
96 ;  the  present  a  good  time  for 
poetic,  138--  the  best,  142  ;  with 
respect  to  beauty,  147  et  seq. ; 
English  critics  of  poetry,  162 ; 
Browning's,  170 ;  false  estimates 
of  Shelley,  218;  faulty,  219; 
Coleridge's,  239;  on  "states  of 
soul,"  272 ;  a  recurring  ques- 
tion, 275;  the  present  an  age 
of,  296,  297  ;  and  see  249,  259. 


308 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


Culprit  Fay,  The,  Drake,  236,  237. 
Culture,  its  success  and  limitations 

in  art,  61  ;  and  see  277. 
Cynicism,  289. 

DANTE,  minor  works  of,  79 ;  char- 
acterized, 112-115;  one  with 
his  age  and  poem,  112;  intense 
personality  of,  113;  Parsons' 
Lines  on  a  Bust  of,  114;  com- 
pared with  Milton,  115,  117, 
245  ;  his  supernaturalism,  243  ; 
human  feeling,  269 ;  faith  of, 
290;  quoted,  174;  and  see  76, 
101,  217,  249,  287. 

Davenant,  Sir  W.,  quoted,  197. 

Davies,  John,  on  music,  65. 

"  Day  Dream,  The,"  Tennyson, 
68-70. 

Decamerone,  II,  Boccaccio,  131. 

Decoration,  4  ;  and  see  Technique. 

Defence  of  Poetry,  A,  Shelley,  25. 

Defense  of  Poesie,  The,  Sidney,  23. 

Definiteness  of  the  artistic  imagi- 
nation, 232,  234. 

Definition  of  Poetry,  why  evaded, 
12-15;  is  possible,  15-17;  and 
see  Poetry. 

De  Foe,  138. 

Delaroche,  H.  [Paul],  painter, 
10. 

De  1'Isle,  Rouget,  La  Marseillaise, 
266. 

Deluge,  The,  Sienkiewicz,  137. 

De  Quincey,  58. 

Derby,  Lord,  82. 

De  Rerum  Natura,  Lucretius,  212, 
217. 

Descriptive  Poetry,  word-painting 
of  Spenser,  Keats,  Tennyson, 


etc.,  67-70 ;  landscape  a  back- 
ground to  life,  177 ;  not  very 
satisfactory,  202  ;  inferior  to 
painting,  ib. ;  when  subjective, 
202-204 ;  and  see  189,  195,  196, 
also  POETRY  and  Nature. 

Deserted  Village,  The,  Goldsmith, 
268. 

Detail.     See  Technique. 

Dickens,  his  prose  and  verse,  57 ; 
quoted,  282  ;  and  see,  137,  283. 

Diction,  of  the  past,  34 ;  Hugo's, 
120;  English,  215;  the  modem 
vocabulary,  225 ;  imaginative 
mastery  of  words,  epithets, 
phrases,  240-242 ;  verbal  feli- 
city of  Shakespeare,  Milton, 
Keats,  Byron,  etc.,  240,  241, — 
of  Emerson,  242 ;  Fancy's  epi- 
thets, 248 ;  majestic  utterance 
in  "  Hyperion,"  etc.,  248 ;  and 
see  Language. 

Didacticism,  of  minor  transcen- 
dentalists,  24  ;  Coleridge's  met- 
aphysical decline,  125  ;  the 
"  didactic  heresy,"  why  opposed 
to  true  poesy,  187,  188,  213  ;  the 
"  higher  "  and  philosophical, 
211-213;  poetry  of  wisdom, 
21 1;  Ecclesiastes,  ib.;  the  Greek 
sages,  Lucretius,  Epicurus, 
Omar,  Tennyson,  etc.,  212,  213; 
Pope  as  a  moralist-poet,  213- 
215  ;  of  the  commonplace,  219  ; 
and  see  Truth,  Ethics,  etc. 

Dilettanteism,  8,  133. 

Dimension,  effect  of  magnitude 
in  art,  247. 

Dimitri      Rudini,     Tourgenieff, 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


309 


Directness.     See  Style. 

Divina  Commedia,  Dante,  1 1 2- 
115;  charged  with  its  author's 
personality,  113  ;  symbolism  of, 
114  ;  compared  with  "  Para- 
dise Lost,"  115;  and  see  269, 
291. 

Dobson,  Austin,  94,  158. 

Don  Juan,  Byron,  19,  123. 

Donoghue,  J.,  sculptor,  13,  200. 

Don  Quixote,  Cervantes,  239. 

"  Dora,"  Tennyson,  193. 

Dore,  G.,  painter,   239;   quoted, 

255- 

Doubt.     See  Faith. 
"  Dover  Beach,"  Arnold,  quoted, 

295- 

Drake,  J.  R.,  236,  237. 

Drama,  The.  Grand  drama  the 
supreme  poetic  structure,  105- 
107  ;  analysis  of  The  Tempest, 
106 ;  impersonality  of  the  mas- 
ters, 107 ;  modern  and  subjec- 
tive, of  Browning,  108-110; 
Browning's  genius  and  method, 
108 ;  the  modern  stage,  1 10 ; 
adaptation  to  the  stage,  ib. ; 
Jonson  on  the  stage,  ib.  ;  Swin- 
burne's plays,  132 ;  meretricious 
plays,  216;  the  grand  drama 
again,  274 ;  modern  plays,  so- 
ciety-drama, etc.,  274,  275  ;  and 
see  Elizabethan  Period,  Greek 
Dramatists,  etc. 

Dramatic  Lyrics,  Browning,  109. 

Dramatic  Poetry,  its  narrative 
may  well  be  borrowed,  57,  237  ; 
Shakespeare,  Browning,  Keats, 
Shelley,  69,  191,  243;  text  of, 
191  ;  Elizabethan  dramatists, 


75;  epical  drama  of  Job,  86; 
youthful  poems  of  dramatists, 
101  ;  Aristotle  on  Tragedy, 
103 ;  why  tragedy  elevates  the 
soul,  103,  104,  271,  272;  Greek 
recognition  of  Destiny,  104 ; 
dramatists  of  Christendom,  #.  ; 
the  dramatic  genius,  ib. ;  Shake- 
speare and  impersonality,  104, 
105;  Faust,  119;  Shelley's,  124; 
truth  to  nature,  189,  190,  —  to 
life,  191  ;  the  Attic,  191 ;  Web- 
ster's Duchess  of  Malfi,  249 ; 
display  of  passion's  extreme 
types,  271-273  ;  exaltation  of, 
271  ;  Browning's  types  of  pas- 
sion, 272;  effect  of  contrasts, 

273- 

Dramatic  Quality,  of  Browning's 
lyrics,  etc.,  109  ;  evinced  of  late 
in  prose  fiction  rather  than  in 
poetry,  137,  138;  and  see  The 
Drama. 

Dramatists.  See  The  Drama  and 
the  Greek  Dramatists. 

Dramatists,  the  Greek,  97-100; 
ethical  motive  of,  97  ;  their  ob- 
jectivity, ib. ;  the  Attic  stage, 
99;  grand  drama  as  an  imagi- 
native transcript  of  life,  101- 
104;  impersonal,  ib.  ;  follow  the 
impartial  law  of  nature,  102; 
and  see  1 13. 

Drayton,  94  ;  quoted,  245. 

Dryden,  Aristotelian  view  of  po- 
etry, 18 ;  quoted,  261 ;  and  see 
162,  172,  250. 

Du  Bellay,  171. 

Dumas,  Pere,  138. 

Duran,  C.,  painter,  9. 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


Diirer,  A.,  artist,  his  "  Melenco- 
lia"  as  the  Muse  of  Christen- 
dom, 140,  141. 

"Dying  Christian,  The,"  Pope, 
214. 

"  EACH  AND  ALL,"  Emerson,  220, 

221. 
Earthly    Paradise,    The,   Morris, 

«3«- 

Eccentricity,  109. 
Ecclesiastes,  211. 
Edda,  The,  131. 
Edison,  T.,  inventor,  32. 
Education,  the  higher  and  ideal, 

4- 

Egoism,  the  Parnassian,  80 ;  and 
see  140,  also  Subjectivity. 

Elaboration,  undue,  193. 

Elegiac  Poetry,  Grecian  epitaphs, 
the  anthologies,  etc.,  88,  89  ; 
the  Greek  idyllists,  89, 90 ;  Eng- 
lish elegies,  90 ;  Ovid,  92  ;  Latin 
feeling,  92,  93  ;  Emerson's 
"  Threnody,"  267. 

"Elemental"  Quality,  250-254; 
Wordsworth's,  251 ;  of  the  He- 
brews, Greeks,  and  modern 
English,  ib.  ;  the  American, 
252,  et  seq.  ;  Bryant's,  252  ; 
Stoddard's  and  Whitman's, 

252,  253  ;  of  some  other  poets, 

253.  2.S4- 

"  Eliot,  George "  (Mrs.  Lewes- 
Cross),  137. 

Elizabethan  Period,  songs  from 
the  dramatists,  170;  poets  of, 
their  truth  of  life  and  charac- 
ter, 191  ;  its  imagination,  249; 
and  see  75,  100,  105,  227  ;  also 


The  Drama  and  Dramatic  Po- 
etry. 

Elliott,  Ebenezer,  quoted,  126. 

"  Eloisa  to  Abelard,"  Pope,  214. 

Eloquence,  sometimes  injurious 
to  poetry,  59. 

Emerson,  on  inspiration  and  in- 
sight, 23,  24  ;  anecdotes  of,  1 30, 
153;  his  words  and  phrases, 
242  ;  on  beauty  and  joy,  267 ; 
his  "  Threnody,"  ib.  ;  on  beauty, 
149,  150;  quoted,  130,  220,  221, 
296;  and  see  35,  39,  50,  58,  75, 
134,  136,  203,  213,  290. 

Emotion,  Wordsworth  on,  20; 
Watts  on,  26;  the  poet  must  be 
impassioned,  49 ;  instinctively 
forms  expression,  ib. ;  its  sug- 
gestion by  music,  66 ;  present 
call  for,  in  art,  211 ;  "uttered," 
262,  263  ;  and  see  Passion. 

Empedocles,  212. 

Empiricism,  its  service  to  the 
modern  poet,  32. 

Encyclopedia  Britannica,  article 
on  Poetry,  Watts,  26. 

Endurance,  the  test  of  art,  166  et 
seq.  ;  natural  selection,  166, 
167 ;  of  classic  masterpieces, 
1 68  ;  of  certain  English  poems, 
170-172;  "Ars  Victrix,"  173; 
transient  aspects  to  be  avoided, 
201  ;  of  Shakespeare,  230,  231. 

Endymion,  Keats,  quotation  from 
its  Preface,  122. 

English  Language,  King  James's 
Version  of  the  Bible,  85 ;  and 
see  Diction. 

English  Poetry,  and  the  imagina- 
tion, 249,  250. 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


English  Poets,  Ward's,  249. 

Environment,  effects  of,  in  youth, 
9,  10;  truth  to,  199-201  ;  of  the 
Antique,  199  ;  a  lesson  from 
Lowell,  200 ;  home  fields  for 
art,  ib.  ;  transient  conditions  in- 
essential, 201 ;  one  defect  of 
Taine's  theory.  276. 

Epic  Poetry,  as  evolved  from  folk- 
songs, 94,  95  ;  the  Homeric 
epos,  95-97  ;  less  inclusive  than 
dramatic,  106 ;  Firdusi's  Shah 
Nameh,  1 1 1  ;  the  Divine  Com- 
edy of  Dante,  1 12-1 1 5  ;  Milton's 
Paradise  Lost,  115-117;  Ar- 
nold's epical  studies,  133-135; 
Walter  Scott,  135;  simplicity 
of,  194  ;  a  growth,  237  ;  and  see 
Objectivity. 

Epicureanism,  217. 

Epicurus,  212. 

Epigram,  Latin,  92. 

Equanimity,  modern,  274. 

Esther,  The  Book  of,ij$. 

Ethics,  of  Homer,  95 ;  truth  of 
ethical  insight,  216-219  ;  the 
highest  wisdom,  216;  a  prosaic 
moral  repulsive  and  unethical, 

216,  217 ;    affected   conviction, 
216;  why  baseness  is  fatal  to 
art,  ib. ;  all  great  poetry  ethical, 

217,  —  and  this  whether  icono- 
clastic or  constructive,  ib.;  Shel- 
ley and  his  mission,  218,  246; 
and  see  Truth. 

Euripides,  his   modern  note,  88 ; 

and  the  Greek  drama,  99 ;  and 

see  137. 

Evanescence,  the  note  of,  181-185. 
Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  The,  Keats,  177. 


Evolution,  287  ;  and  see  Science. 

Exaltation,  national,  83 ;  dramatic, 
271. 

Excursion,  The,  Wordsworth,  206. 

Execution  of  the  true  artist,  235. 

Executive  Force,  guided  by  the 
imagination,  228,  229. 

Expression,  chief  function  of  all 
the  fine  arts,  44 ;  as  the  source 
of  beauty,  1 52 ;  need  of  a  free 
vehicle,  214  ;  moved  by  imagi- 
nation, 257  ;  its  poetic  factors, 
259 ;  perfected  by  emotion,  261  ; 
should  be  inevitable,  274. 

Ezekiel,  quoted,  287. 

FACILITY,  undue,  235. 

"  Faculty  Divine,  The,"  so  called 
by  Wordsworth,  259;  what  it 
includes,  277. 

Fairfield,  F.  G.,  neurotic  theory 
of  genius,  284. 

Faith,  the  scientist's  grounded 
in  knowledge  only,  33 ;  and 
science,  Lowell  on,  37  ;  Judaic 
anthropomorphism,  83 ;  its  in- 
dispensability,  280-296 ;  recent 
lack  of,  ib. ;  distrust  and  cyni- 
cism, 289 ;  works  for  distinc- 
tion, 289-291  ;  its  poetic  mas- 
terpiece, the  Church  Liturgy, 
291-294;  unrest  of  Arnold  and 
Clough,  294,  295 ;  the  new  day, 

29S- 

Fame,  Palgrave  on  popular  judg- 
ment, 136;  the  case  of  Burns, 
265  ;  of  Byron,  ib. 

Fancy,  "The  Culprit  Fay,"  236; 
the  realm  of,  247,  248 ;  and  see 
215,  254. 


312 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


Fantasy,  distinguished  from  imagi- 
nation, 236. 

"  Farewell  to  Nancy,"  Burns, 
quoted,  265. 

Fashion,  effect  of,  39 ;  the  tempo- 
rary must  be  distinguished  from 
the  lasting,  166;  poetic  style  of 
Queen  Anne's  time,  213,  214. 

Faust,  Goethe,  Snider  on,  95 ; 
subjectivity  of,  137  ;  and  see 
104,  119,  137,  238,  269. 

Faustus,  Marlowe,  238. 

Feeling,  classical  expressions  of, 
83  et  seq. ;  of  Wordsworth, 

263,  264 ;  its  quality  illustrated, 

264,  265 ;    religious,    national, 
etc.,  266 ;  more  accurate  than 
thought,  286 ;  and  see  147  ;  also 
Passion. 

"  Feigned  History,"  as  a  generic 
term  for  all  imaginative  litera- 
ture, 56,  57. 

Felicia,  Fanny  Murfree,  208,  209. 

Female  Poets,  Sappho,  88 ;  Mrs. 
Browning,  88,  128,  266;  subjec- 
tivity of,  1 27 ;  Miss  Lazarus, 
266;  Miss  Rossetti,  269. 

Femininity,  self  -  expression  the 
minor  key  of  song,  127. 

Ferishtah's  Fancies,  Browning, 
225. 

Fiction,  prose  (including  The 
Navel,  Prose  Romance,  etc.),  let- 
ter from  A.  S.  Hardy,  36  ;  dis- 
tinguished from  the  poetry 
under  consideration,  56-59;  as 
"  Feigned  History,"  56  ;  inven- 
tion as  to  plot,  narrative,  char- 
acterization, 57 ;  must  not  be 
rhythmical,  57-59;  inborn  gift 


of  the  great  novelists  and  ro- 
mancers, 60 ;  Howells',  ib. ;  as 
the  principal  outcome  of  recent 
dramatic  and  creative  facul- 
ties, 137,  138;  great  modern 
novels  and  novelists,  137  ;  the 
chief  literary  distinction  of  the 
century,  138  ;  functions  of  the 
novelist,  237  ;  examples  of  re- 
served power,  273. 

Fielding,  60. 

Fine  Arts.     See  Arts,  The  Fine. 

Finish.     See  Technique. 

Firdusi,  in. 

"  Fitness  of  Things,  The,"  45,  1 56. 

Fitzgerald,  E.,  82,  217. 

Flavor,  natural,  180. 

Fletcher,  J.,  171. 

"  Flood  of  Years,  The,"  Bryant, 
252. 

Folk  Songs,  176;  of  Ireland  and 
Scotland,  180;  and  see  Ballads. 

Force,  that  of  poetry,  3,  —  not  ex- 
erted by  mere  intellect  and  cul- 
ture, 60;  ethical,  217;  as  the 
vital  spark,  259 ;  and  see  INTRO- 
DUCTION. 

Ford,  John,  108. 

"  Forgiveness,  A,"  Browning,  109. 

Form,  greatness  of  the  dramatic, 
107  ;  English  measures,  215; 
and  see  Construction  and  Tech- 
nique. 

Forman,  H.  Buxton,  a  phrase  of, 

52- 
Formlessness  of  outline,  its  poetic 

effect,  246. 
Foscolo,  133. 
Fourier,  C.,  9. 
Freedom  of  the  poet's  field,  220. 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


French  Poetry,  18. 

French     Revolution,    effects    of, 

123,215. 
French   School,  influence  of  the 

recent,  226. 

Fuller,  George,  painter,  246. 
Fuller,  Margaret,  anecdote  of,  50. 
Future,  promise  of  the,  296. 

GALILEO,  33. 

Galland,  Orientalist,  82. 

"  Caspar  Becerra,"  Longfellow, 
220. 

Gautier,  Th.,  paraphrased  by 
Dobson,  173;  and  see  120,  130, 
179,  290. 

Gebir,  Landor,  205. 

Genius,  finds  its  natural  suste- 
nance, 10  ;  vindication  of,  46, — 
by  Plato,  ib,  ;  scientifically  de- 
fined by  Hartmann,  ib.  ;  "  poeta 
nascitur,"  53  ;  "  a  born  lawyer," 
etc.,  56;  its  methods  imita- 
ble  through  industry  and  cul- 
ture, 59-61 ;  the  dramatic,  104 ; 
the  real  test  of  poetry,  139;  self 
training  of,  145;  its  individual- 
ity the  sole  value  of  art,  accord- 
ing to  Veron,  152,  153;  natural 
bent  of,  is  unchangeable,  220 ; 
has  a  law  of  its  own,  247 ;  the 
question  of  its  existence  and 
nature,  276-285 ;  recognition  of, 
277 ;  as  an  inherent  gift,  ib. ; 
Carlyle,  Lowell,  and  Howells 
on,  278  ;  distinguished  from  tal- 
ent, 279, — from  taste,  280;  con- 
genital, 281,  282 ;  is  original, 
283 ;  not  dependent  on  theme, 
ib. ;  often  limited,  id. ;  the  uni- 


versal type,  health  of,  284 ;  its 
good  sense,  284 ;  should  be 
obeyed  by  its  possessor,  284, 
285  ;  its  spontaneity,  285 ;  in- 
spiration of,  287  ;  and  see  147. 

Georgian  Period,  55,  116,  125,  138, 
225,  227,  250. 

Gerome,  painter,  239. 

Gerusalemme  Liberata,  Tasso,  112. 

Gesta  Romanorum,  '131. 

Gilder,  R.  W.,  quoted,  257. 

Gildersleeve,  Basil  L.,  too. 

Gnomic  Poetry,  75. 

Goethe,  "  Wertherism,"  121  ; 
Heine's  criticism  of  him  and 
of  Schiller,  18;  and  the  Ro- 
mantic movement,  119;  Ar- 
nold's study  of,  133 ;  on  art, 
201  ;  on  epic  and  dramatic  po- 
ets, 237 ;  quoted,  64,  142,  143, 
247;  and  see  54,  58,  76,  113, 
1 1 8,  1 68,  263,  269,  290;  and  see 
Faust. 

Golden  Ages,  78. 

Golden  Treasury,  The,  Palgrave, 
136,  172. 

Goldsmith,  172,  250,  268. 

Gosse,  quoted,  in. 

Gothic  Art  and  Song,  159. 

Grace,  179  ;  and  see  Charm, 

Gray,  172,  250. 

Greek  Bucolic  Poets,  169. 

Greek  Dramatists.  See  Drama- 
tists, the  Greek. 

Greek  Lyrists,  169. 

Greeks,  The.  See  The  Antique, 
Objectivity,  etc. 

Gregory  VII.,  Home,  104. 

Grotesque,  The,  160. 

Guy  Mannering,  Scott,  137. 


314 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


"HAMADRYAD,THE,"  Landor,  200. 

Hamlet,  Shakespeare,  102,  104. 

Harris,  W.  T.,  inspirational  view 
of  poetry,  23  ;  and  see  174. 

Hartlib,  S.,  Milton's  friend,  27. 

Hartmann,  E.  von,  metaphysician, 
on  genius,  46,  282 ;  on  the  idea 
in  art,  156. 

Hawthorne,  137,  218,  273. 

Haydon,  B.  R.,  painter,  on  art,  201. 

Hazlitt,  W.,  logical  view  of  poe- 
try, 25  ;  cited,  207,  208. 

Health,  recoverable  in  poetry,  295. 

Hebraism,  99,  290 ;  and  see  Bible, 
Poetry  of  the. 

Heine,  compared  with  Byron,  125 ; 
character  and  genius,  126;  his 
mocking  note,  127  ;  quoted,  112; 
cited,  140;  and  see  135,  142, 
203,  208. 

Hellenism,  Landor,  124;  com- 
pared with  Latinism,  90,  91 ; 
effect  on  Vergil,  91 ;  Poetry  of 
Greece,  87-90,  95-100;  the 
Greek  lyrists,  87 ;  the  antho- 
logy, etc.,  88,  89 ;  idyllists,  89, 
90 ;  the  Homeric  epos,  95-97 ; 
the  Attic  dramatists,  97-100; 
antique  view  of  tragedy,  etc., 
103,  104. 

Henry  Esmond,   Thackeray,    55, 

137- 

Heredity  of  genius,  277. 
Herodotus,  169. 
Heroic  poetry,  Horace's  view  of, 

18. 

Herrick,  168,  171. 
Hesiod,  and  Vergil's  Georgics,  91. 
"  Highland  Mary,"  Burns,  265. 
Hindu  Literature,  81,  82. 


Hoffmann,  Ernst,  142. 

Holinshed,  chronicler,  57. 

Holmes,  quoted,  281. 

Homer,  Lord  Derby's  version,  82 ; 
Vergil's  obligations  to,  91 ;  Sni- 
der's  ethical  theory  of  the  Iliad 
and  Odyssey,  95;  his  joyous 
and  perfect  transcript  of  life,  96, 
in  ;  highest  value  of,  97  ;  mod- 
ern "Homeric  Echoes,"  134; 
Arnold  on  the  swift  epic  move- 
ment, 134;  descriptive  touches 
of,  190;  ethics,  217  ;  endurance, 
230 ;  impassioned  characters, 
270,  271  ;  quoted,  194;  and  see 
78,  106,  106,  191,  236,  251,  269, 
290. 

Hood,  a  poet  of  emotion,  265. 

Horace,  concerning  poetry,  17; 
progenitor  of  the  beaux  esprits, 
93;  and  see  27,  169. 

"  Horatian  Ode,  An,"  Stoddard, 

239- 

Horatii,  The,  93. 
Home,  R.  H.,  Gregory  VII.,  104 ; 

dramas  of,    132;   and  see   29, 

133- 

Household  Book  of  Poetry,  The, 
Dana,  236. 

House  of  Life,  The,  Rossetti,  269. 

Howe,  Julia  Ward,  267. 

Howell,  Elisabeth  Lloyd,  266. 

Howells,  W.  D.,  as  illustrating 
both  natural  gift  and  training, 
60;  on  recent  Italian  poetry, 
128, 129 ;  on  genius  as  "  natural 
aptitude,"  278. 

Hugo,  V.,  Hernani,  104 ;  and  the 
Romantic  movement,  1 19  ;  and 
see  18,  133,  142,  269,  287,  290. 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


315 


Human   Element,  The,   269;    of 

the  Liturgy,  292  et  sey. 
Humor,  as  a  pathetic  factor,  215  ; 

and  see  123,  275. 
Hunt,  Leigh,  on  poetry,  25 ;  cited, 

239;  quoted,  243;  and  see  119, 

i?3.  '79.  225. 

Hutchinson,  Ellen  M.,  quoted, 
182. 

"  Hymn,  before  Sunrise,"  Cole- 
ridge, 266. 

"  Hymn  to  Aphrodite,"  Sappho, 
88. 

Hyperion,  Keats,  its  large  utter- 
ance, 248 ;  quoted,  ib. 

IBSEN,  42. 

"  Ichabod,"  Whittier,  268. 

Idealist,  The,  how  affected  by  the 
new  learning,  34-37. 

Ideality,  its  bearing  on  individual 
action,  3-5;  present  struggle 
with  empiricism,  34-39 ;  the 
"  shews  of  things  "  are  real  to 
the  poet,  r  53 ;  characterizes 
true  Realism,  199;  opposed 
alike  to  prosaic  goodness  and 
to  vice,  216;  against  impurity, 
262  ;  present  want  of,  274. 

Ideals,  racial  and  national,  159, 
162-165;  the  Aryan,  159;  Aca- 
demic, 161 ;  the  Japanese,  etc., 
162-165. 

Ideal,  the  artist's,  what  constitutes 
it,  41. 

Idyllic  Poetry,  Keats,  Tennyson, 
etc.,  68,  69;  of  the  Bible,  87; 
Ruth  and  Esther  contrasted 
with  Anna  Kartnina,  175  ;  Ten- 
nyson's method,  193;  recent 


idyllic  period,  210,  211;   Snow 
Bound,   268;   over    supply    of, 

275- 

Idyllic  quality,  225. 

"  I  have  loved  flowers  that  fade," 
Bridges,  185. 

Iliad,  The.     See  Homer. 

"II  Penseroso,"  Milton,  116. 

Imagery,  when  outworn,  34 ;  of 
poets,  Joubert  on,  235. 

Imagination,  sovereign  of  the 
arts,  5  ;  its  office  fully  recog- 
nized by  Wordsworth  and  Cole- 
ridge, 20,  21 ;  Schopenhauer  on, 
21 ;  indispensable  to  the  savant, 
32 ;  the  savant's  akin  to  the 
poet's,  36 ;  increased  material 
for,  38  ;  the  dramatic,  104 ;  no- 
thing forbidden  to  it,  201 ;  glori- 
fies Shakespeare's  errors  of  fact, 
ib.  ;  of  the  intellect,  211 ;  freed 
by  a  free  rhythm,  214;  consid- 
ered as  the  informing  element  of 
poetic  expression,  225-258  ;  lack 
of,  in  recent  poetry,  227  ;  chief 
factor  in  human  action,  228 ; 
the  executive,  229 ;  the  poetic, 
ib. ;  Shakespeare's,  229-231 ; 
definition  of,  231,  —  illustrations 
of  same,  232-235 ;  how  to  test 
it,  232 ;  must  be  clear,  ib. ;  must 
have  "  holding  power,"  233 ; 
of  Blake,  ib.  ;  definiteness  of, 
234  ;  not  confined  to  the  super- 
human, 236 ;  its  higher  flights, 
236,  237  ;  when  inventive  and 
constructive,  237 ;  when  purely 
creative,  237,  238 ;  its  Wonder- 
land, 238 ;  its  power  of  sugges- 
tiveness  and  prevision,  239 ;  im- 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


aginative  diction,  240-242  ;  of  the 
supernatural,  243,  244;  sublim- 
ity of  the  Vague,  244-247 ;  of 
Shelley,  poet  of  cloudland,  246 ; 
effect  of  magnitude  on  the,  247 ; 
how  distinguished  from  Fancy, 
247 ;  "  the  grand  manner,"  248 ; 
of  the  Elizabethans,  249 ;  usual- 
ly deficient  between  the  Eliza- 
bethan and  Georgian  periods, 
250 ;  comparison,  association, 
etc.,  250 ;  of  "  elemental  "  bards, 
250-254 ;  divinity  of  this  crea- 
tive gift,  254-258  ;  as  used  and 
excited  by  emotion,  261  ;  ima- 
gined feeling,  273 ;  promised 
revival  of,  296;  and  see  147, 
166. 

Imitation,  normal  in  youth,  13; 
how  far  the  office  of  art,  17  ; 
Vergil's,  of  the  Greek  poets, 
91 ;  Longfellow's,  91,  92 ;  Schle- 
gel  on,  92 ;  the  greatest  work 
inimitable,  109 ;  servile,  not  true 
realism,  197,  198. 

Immaturity,  posing  of  Heine's 
youthful  imitators,  127 ;  and 
see  Training. 

Immorality.     See  Ethics. 

"  Impassioned,"  its  meaning,  261. 

Impersonality.     See  Objectivity. 

Impressionism,  of  the  Nineteenth 
Century  poets,  118;  true,  144; 
how  allied  to  transcendental- 
ism, 149;  its  value  and  defects, 
1 50 ;  and  see  1 53. 

Individuality,  of  certain  writers, 
58;  of  style,  80;  Longfellow's 
specific  tone,  92;  Browning's, 
1 08 ;  its  loss  means  death  in 


art,  144 ;  national,  how  lost, 
164 ;  the  poet's  distinctive  voice, 
297  ;  and  see  Subjectivity. 

Industry,  differentiated  from  fac- 
ulty, 46;  of  men  of  genius, 
278. 

In    Memoriam,    Tennysor's,    55, 

212,  225,  270. 

Inness,  G.,  painter,  246. 

Insight,  the  poet  as  a  seer,  22-24  5 
preceding  demonstration,  37 ; 
the  source  of  revelation,  45,  — 
Plato  and  Wordsworth  on,  ib. ; 
allied  with  genius,  46;  the  ce- 
lestial, 65;  the  Miltonic,  116, 
117;  nature  of,  285;  as  inspi- 
ration, 287 ;  and  see  147. 

Inspiration,  as  a  poetic  factor, 
according  to  Plato  and  his  suc- 
cessors, 21-24,  46;  Zoroaster 
on,  22;  Hebraic,  75;  pseudo, 
235  ;  belief  in  direct,  287  ;  the 
prophetic,  287  ;  and  see  147. 

Instinct,  284. 

Intellectuality,  Browning's,  109; 
Milton's  learning,  116;  poetry 
of  wisdom  and  morals,  211- 
215  ;  and  see  Thought. 

Intelligibility,  236. 

Intensity,  of  emotion,  261 ;  the 
dramatic,  273. 

Interpretation,  of  nature,  see 
Section  VI.,  passim ;  Words- 
worth, Bryant  and  the  Ameri- 
can School,  195 ;  Whitman's 
and  Lanier's,  195,  196;  sub- 
jective, of  Nineteenth  Century 
poets,  202-204 ;  the  pathetic 
fallacy,  204-210 ;  and  see  Re- 
velation, Insight,  etc. 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


Interpretative  Faculty,  26;  and 
see  Insight,  etc. 

Inter-Transmutation  of  certain 
poetic  styles,  215. 

INTRODUCTION.  Account  of  the 
origin,  purpose  and  method  of 
the  present  treatise,  pp.  vii-xvii. 

Introspection,  conventual,  140 ; 
and  see  Subjectivity. 

Intuition,  unconscious  process  of 
the  soul,  147 ;  superior  to  logi- 
cal process,  157 ;  should  be 
obeyed,  284;  woman's,  286. 

Invention,  fiction  its  modern  out- 
let, 137,  138;  an  imaginative 
function,  237. 

Ion,  Euripides,  99. 

Irony.     See  Satire. 

Irreverence,  dangers   of  artistic, 

158- 

Isabella,  Keats,  239. 
Isaiah,  236. 

Island,  The,  Byron,  206. 
"  Israfel,"  Poe,  73. 
Italian  influence,  162. 
Italian  poetry,  English  obligations 

to,  115  ;  of  modern  Italy,  128. 

JAMES,  G.  P.  R.,  novelist,  137. 

James,  H.,  novelist,  192. 

Japanese,  the,  artistic  method  of, 
31  ;  their  literature,  81  ;  antipo- 
dal art  ideals  of,  162-165  ;  they 
recognize  fitness  and  ideal 
beauty,  162,  163 ;  danger  men- 
acing their  individuality,  164; 
assimilative  tendency  of,  165. 

"  Jeanie  Morrison,"  Motherwell, 
265. 

Job,  The  Book  of,  its  grandeur  and 


impersonality,  86 ;  quoted,  244 ; 
and  see  36,  104,  113,  236. 
Johns  Hopkins  University,  its  ori- 
gin and  founder,  3,  4 ;  and  see 

61,  93- 

Johnson,  Dr.,  14. 

Jones,  Sir  William,  82. 

Jonson,  Ben,  on  language,  51 ;  on 
the  English  stage,  no;  plays 
and  songs  of,  170;  and  see  250. 

Joubert,   critic,  15,  135;   quoted, 

143- 

Joy  of  the  poet,  267. 
Judaism .    See  Bible  t  Poetry  of  the. 
Judgment,  284. 
Julius  Cezsar,  Shakespeare,  104. 

KEATS,  quoted,  67  ;  as  an  artist- 
poet,  68,  69  ;  dramatic  promise 
of,  69,  1 10 ;  his  place  in  Eng- 
lish poetry,  no;  on  immaturity, 
122;  creative  works  of,  124;  on 
beauty  and  truth,  187,  220 ;  im- 
aginative diction  of,  241 ;  his 
style,  248  ;  on  intensity,  262 ; 
quoted,  182 ;  and  see  10,  60,  75, 
116,  119,  133,  172,  173,  177,  193, 
225,  239,  255. 

Kepler,  astronomer,  quoted,  155. 

Kingsley,  Hypatia,  118. 

"  Kubla  Khan,"  Coleridge,  125. 

LA  FARGE,  J.,  artist,  cited,  78,  79  ; 

on  Japanese  Architecture,  163. 
Lake  School,  The,  33. 
"L*  Allegro,"  Milton,  lid. 
Lamartine,  120. 
Lamb,  C.,  162,  170. 
"  Land   o'  the  Leal,  The,"  Lady 

Nairne,  265. 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


Landor,  creative  works;  124;  his 
"  sea-shell,"  205,  206  ;  cited,  18 ; 
quoted,  184,  204,  239,  241,  247 ; 
and  see  58,  82,  133,  135,  179, 
200,  203. 

Landscape.  See  Descriptive  Po- 
etry, Nature,  etc. 

Lang,  A.,  renderings  from  the 
Anthology,  89  ;  and  see  82. 

Language,  its  efficacy  to  express 
ideas,  15,  16;  poetry  absolutely 
dependent  on,  for  its  concrete 
existence,  50 ;  Ben  Jonson  on, 
as  speech,  51 ;  must  become 
rhythmic  to  be  minstrelsy,  51- 
55  ;  "  idealized  language,"  52 ; 
vibratory  power  of  words,  52 ; 
a  test  of  genuineness,  54 ; 
speech  a  more  complex  music 
than  music  itself,  72,  179;  the 
Hebrew,  87  ;  the  genius  of  our 
English  tongue,  214,  —  its  eclec- 
ticism and  increase,  215;  and 
see  Diction. 

Lanier,  compared  with  Whitman, 
196 ;  his  imagination,  253  ;  mu- 
sical genius  of,  282  ;  his  work 
tentative,  ib.  ;  and  see  62,  158. 

Laocoon,  Lessing,  66. 

Latinism,  sentiment  of  Latin  po- 
ets, 90-94  ;  Vergil  and  his  mod- 
ern countertypes,  91 ;  Ovid, 
Catullus,  etc.,  92  ;  Tu  Marcel- 
lus  eris,  93 ;  Horace  and  the 
Horatii,  93,  94. 

Law,  natural,  the  working  basis 
of  all  art,  6-8  ;  poetic,  62. 

Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  The, 
Scott,  131,  238. 

Lazarus,  Emma,  266. 


Learning,  the  New,  34  ;  and  see 

Science. 
Lee  -  Hamilton,    E.,    sonnet    by, 

206. 

Leighton,  Sir  F.,  painter,  279. 
Leopardi,  133. 

Les  Precieuses,  Moliere,  100. 
Les  Trots  Mousquetaires,  Dumas, 

137- 

Life,  conduct  of,  5 ;  the  poet  su- 
preme among  artists  in  the  por- 
trayal of,  70,  71. 

Life  School,  prospective  rise  of  a, 
211. 

Light  of  Asia,  The,  E.  Arnold,  82, 

235- 

Limitations,  of  specific  genius, 
80,  283 ;  charmingly  observed 
by  the  Horatii,  94 ;  and  see 
288. 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  143. 

"  Lines  to  an  Indian  Air,"  Shel- 
ley, 266. 

Liszt,  musician,  9,  232. 

Literary  eras.  See  Periods,  liter- 
ary and  artistic. 

Liturgy,  The  Church,  as  a  literary 
masterpiece  of  Faith,  291-294 ; 
its  universal  and  human  quality, 
292  ;  symphonic  perfection,  293 ; 
its  uniqueness,  ib. 

"  Local "  Flavor,  Lowell's  taste 
for  American  lyrics,  200 ;  a 
home-field  for  our  sculptors,  ib. 

"  Locks! ey  Hall,"  Tennyson,  270. 

Lodge,  O.  J.,  physicist,  35. 

Lombroso,  C.,  a  theory  of,  284. 

Longfellow,  the  New  World  coun- 
terpart of  Vergil,  91 ;  "  Gaspar 
Becerra,"  220  ;  his  national  po- 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


319 


etry,  268  ;  quoted,  30,  260  ;  and 
see  136,  203,  225,  235,  289. 

Longinus,  cited  by  Dryden,  18. 

Long  Poem,  A,  is  the  designation 
a  misnomer?  178. 

Lorna  Doone,  Blackmore,  137. 

"  Lost  Occasion,  The,"  Whittier, 
268. 

"Lotos-Eaters,  The,"  Tennyson, 
177. 

Love  as  a  master-passion,  260. 

Lovelace,  R.,  167,  171. 

Lowell,  on  faith  and  science,  57  ; 
on  Addison  and  Steele,  100; 
his  national  sentiment,  129  ;  his 
truth  to  nature,  190 ;  his  re- 
spect for  "  local  "  flavor,  200 ; 
on  our  view  of  nature,  quoted, 
207  ;  verbal  aptness  of,  242  ; 
Odes,  267 ;  on  talent  and  gen- 
ius, 278;  quoted,  144,  180,  188; 
and  see  4,  27,  136,  162,  195,  203, 
213. 

Lucile,  Lytton,  237. 

Lucretius,  75,  91,  212,  217. 

"  Lucretius,"  Tennyson,  270. 

Lusiad,  The,  Camoens,  112,  244. 

Lyall,  Sir  A.,  quoted,  182. 

"Lycidas,"  Milton,  90,  116;  quo- 
ted, 1 02. 

Lyrical  Ballads,  Wordsworth  and 
Coleridge,  21. 

Lyrical  Poetry,  not  always  sub- 
jective, 83 ;  the  Davidic  lyre, 
84,  85 ;  early  alliance  with  mu- 
sic, 85;  the  Greek  lyrists,  87, 
88 ;  Catullus,  et  al.,  92  ;  Horace 
and  his  successors,  93 ;  primi- 
tive ballads,  etc.,  94  ;  songs  of 
the  drama,  105  ;  Ariel's  songs, 


107  ;  characteristics  of  the  pure 
lyric,   178-180 ;    and  see    264, 
265,  also  Songs  and  Lyrics. 
Lytton,  Robert,  Lord,  Lucille,  237. 

MACAULAY,  on  poets  as  critics,  12 
Macpherson,  58. 
Mahaffy,  J.  P.,  scholar,  88. 
Manzoni,  210. 
Marlowe,  167,  238,  249. 
Marmion,  Scott,  131,  135. 
Marseillaise,  La,  De  1'Isle,  266. 
Martin,  Homer,  painter,  246. 
Martineau,  Harriet,  quoted,  76. 
Mary  Stuart,  Swinburne,  132. 
Masculinity,     impersonality     the 

major  key  of  song,  127. 
Masque  of  the  Gods,  The,  Taylor, 

254. 

Masque,  The  (Elizabethan),  107. 

Masterpieces,  appeal  to  the  pub- 
lic and  the  critical  few,  197  ;  the 
Church  Liturgy,  291  et  seq. 

Masters,  the,  their  influence  on 
youth,  10. 

Materialism,  3  ;  Whitman  on,  38. 

Materials,  poetic,  not  a  substitute 
for  imagination,  235. 

Maxwell,  C.,  scientist,  35. 

Mediocrity  of  followers  in  art,  151. 

"  Meditations  of  a  Hindu  Prince," 
Lyall,  182. 

Meleager,  89. 

"  Melencolia,"  Diirer,  140  (and 
see  Frontispiece). 

Melodramatic  quality,  Hugo,  119, 

Melody,  as  heard  or  symbolized, 
174;  of  speech  and  of  niusic, 
179  ;  the  "  dying  fall,"  183. 

Men  and  Women,  Browning,  109. 


320 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


Menzel,  critic,  cited,  1 18. 

Meredith,  G.,  42,  137. 

Metaphysics,  hostile  to  a  true  aes- 
thetic, 149  ;  effect  upon  Cole- 
ridge, 239 ;  and  see  Didacti- 
cism. 

Michelangelo,  50,  101,  233,  247, 
272. 

"  Midsummer  Meditation,  A," 
Gilder,  257. 

Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream, 
Shakespeare,  189,  201,  248. 

Mill,  J.  S.,  on  philosophy,  16  ;  on 
poetry  as  emotion,  19,  20 ;  on 
feeling  and  rhythm,  55  ;  on  the 
novelist  and  the  poet,  138 ;  on 
feeling  and  thought,  261  ;  and 
see  178. 

Millais,  Sir  J.,  painter,  279. 

Miller,  "  Olive  Thorne  "  [Harriet 
M.],  62. 

Millet,  J.  F.,  painter,  10,  255. 

Milton,  his  poetic  canon,  27,  49, 
260 ;  tractate  On  Education,  27  ; 
as  a  Copernican,  35  ;  his  prose, 
59;  early  poems  of,  168;  Co- 
mus,  236 ;  his  Satan,  238 ;  his 
imaginative  words  and  phrases, 
240  et  seq. ;  his  imagination, 
245 ;  quoted,  53  ;  and  see  58, 
76,  90,  113,  172,  193,  226,248, 
250,  269,  287,  290. 

"  Miltonic,"  240. 

Miltonic  Canon,  the,  its  consti- 
tuent of  passion,  260,  261  ;  and 
see  27,  49. 

"  Milton  in  his  Blindness,"  How- 
ell,  266. 

"Mimnermus  in  Church,"  Cory, 
183. 


Minor  Poets,  80;  the  creative 
masters  in  youth,  101  ;  recent, 
their  merits  and  defects,  136, 
226,  227,  254 ;  the  new  art- 
school,  173. 

Mirth,  275. 

Mixed  type,  poetry  of  the,  113, 
114. 

Moliere,  100,  283. 

Moore,  T.,  states  the  Byronic 
creed,  19. 

Monet,  Claude,  painter,  158. 

Monodramas,  109. 

Monticelli,  painter,  158. 

Moralism.     See  Didacticism,  etc. 

More,  Henry,  quoted,  286. 

Morris,  W.,  contrasted  with  Wal- 
ter Scott,  131  ;  and  Chaucer, 
170. 

Moschus,  paraphrase  on  a  pas- 
sage in  Job,  90 ;  Epitaph  on 
Bion,  90. 

Motherwell,  W.,  266. 

Motive,  recent  lack  of,  289. 

Mozart,  musical  genius  of,  281. 

Murfree,  Fanny  N.  D.,  novelist, 
quoted,  208,  209. 

Music,  as  a  sensation,  15;  La- 
nier's  devotion  to,  62,  282  ;  its 
range  and  limits  of  expression, 
and  as  compared  with  poetry, 
64-66 ;  special  functions,  64 ;  is 
it  the  highest  art  ?  ib.  ;  Poe  on, 
65 ;  Schopenhauer  and  Spencer 
on,  65 ;  expresses  feeling,  not 
thought,  66;  its  effect  on  the 
rhythm,  etc.,  of  the  Hebrew 
psalms,  85  ;  philosophy  of,  179; 
the  musician's  memory,  232 ; 
and  see  264. 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


321 


Musset,  120,  290. 

Muybridge,  E.  J.,  his  instantane- 
ous photography,  198,  199. 

Myers,  F.  W.  H.,  on  genius, 
282. 

"  My  Last  Duchess,"  Browning, 
109. 

"My  Maryland,"  Randall,  266. 

NAIRNE,  LADY,  264. 

Naivete,  of  the  Psalms,  etc.,  85 ; 
and  see  180,  also  Naturalness. 

Narrative  poetry,  inferior  in  real- 
ism to  dramatic,  107  ;  see  Ob- 
jectivity. 

National  sentiment,  the  modern 
Italian,  1 28 ;  of  American  verse, 
129. 

Naturalism,  197  ;  the  true,  273. 

Naturalness,  excellence  of  genu- 
ine feeling,  142;  return  of,  173; 
makes  for  simplicity,  176;  affec- 
tation of,  177  ;  method  should 
seem  unconscious,  193  ;  and  see 
264. 

Nature,  trains  the  poet,  10 ;  Mil- 
ton's treatment  of,  116;  normal 
beauty  of,  156,  157;  poetry  of, 
from  Wordsworth  and  Bryant 
to  Lanier,  194-196;  subjective 
in  recent  times,  202-204 !  the 
modern  return  to,  204 ;  does 
she  give  solace  and  sympathy  ? 
204-209  ;  full  of  motion  and 
unrest,  208;  the  sovereign  of 
modern  art  and  song,  210;  her 
triumph  too  prolonged,  211; 
universally  set  forth  by  Shake- 
speare, 229;  and  Wordsworth's 
similes,  250. 


Neo-impressionism,  1 53  ;  and  see 
Impression  ism . 

Neo-Romanticism,  130. 

"  Neurotic  disorder,"  the  ques- 
tion of,  284. 

Newcomes,  The,  Thackeray,  137. 

Nibelungen  Lied,  131. 

Nineteenth  Century,  literary  emi- 
nence of,  138;  its  idealization 
of  Nature,  in  art  and  poetry, 
210;  Wordsworth's  place  in, 
219. 

Norse  poetry,  sages,  78. 

Notre  Dame  de  Paris,  Hugo,  137. 

Novalis,  142. 

Novel,  the,  and  Novelists.  See 
Prose  Fiction. 

Novels  in  verse,  237. 

Novelty,  romantic  effect  of 
strangeness,  151  ;  stimulates 
zest,  1 60. 

OBJECTIVITY,  creative  and  imper- 
sonal poetry,  75-110,  passim  ; 
absolute  vision,  77, 78 ;  creative 
eras,  79 ;  of  the  Book  of  Job, 
86  ;  the  Hebrew  idyls,  87,  175; 
primitive  ballads,  94  ;  charm 
of,  in  the  antique,  96,  97 ;  the 
Greek  drama,  97-101  ;  the  dra- 
matic genius,  104 ;  impersonal- 
ity of  the  old  masters,  107 ; 
Homer,  in  ;  Chaucer,  115; 
Burns,  120  ;  its  restorative 
charm,  121;  of  certain  produc- 
tions of  Shelley,  Keats,  Landor, 
124;  masculine,  and  in  the 
major  key,  127;  pseudo-imper- 
sonality of  artistic  recent  verse, 
130,  131 ;  Walter  Scott,  131 ; 


322 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


Arnold's  theory  and  epical 
studies,  133,  134;  the  "note  of 
the  inevitable,"  134  ;  our  greater 
prose  fiction,  137,  138 ;  not  the 
chief  test  of  poetic  genius,  139  ; 
of  the  antique,  compared  with 
the  muse  of  Christendom,  139- 
143 ;  its  invigorating  value,  142  ; 
not  the  final  test  of  poetry,  144  ; 
may  be  tame  and  artificial,  ib.  ; 
the  antique  view  of  nature,  207  ; 
creation  of  impassioned  types, 
270-273  ;  and  see  250. 

Obscurity,  235. 

"  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn,"  Keats, 
67,  187- 

Odes,   Lowell's   and    Emerson's, 
267. 

Odyssey,   The,  131  ;  and   see  Ho- 
mer. 

CEdipus    at    Colonos,    Sophocles, 
190,  238. 

CEdipus     Tyrannus,     Sophocles, 
98,  104. 

"  OZnone,"   Tennyson,   177,   200, 
242. 

"  Old      Pictures     in     Florence," 
Browning,  170. 

Omar    Khayyam,     Rubdiydt    of, 
Fitzgerald,  82,  212. 

"  On  a  Bust  of  Dante,"  Parsons, 

254- 
On  Education,  Milton's  tractate, 

27. 

On  the  Heights,  Auerbach,  137. 
"  On  the  Receipt  of  my  Mother's 

Picture,"  Cowper,  274. 
Optimism,    of    sovereign    poets, 

290 ;  and  see  295,  296. 
Orientalism,  Zoroaster,  22 ;  Japa- 


nese art,  31 ;  the  Asiatic  inspi- 
ration, how  far  understood  and 
transformed  by  us,  81,  82  ;  He- 
brew genius  and  poetry,  82,  87  ; 
influence  on  the  Alexandrian 
school,  90;  Firdusi,  in  ;  In- 
dia, China,  etc.,  162 ;  ano1  see 
244,  also  Hebraism,  the  Japa- 
nese, Poetry  of  the  Bible,  etc. 

Originality,  distinguished  from 
skill,  60 ;  not  discordant  with 
universal  principles,  151 ;  of 
genius,  277,  283. 

Orion;  Home,  29. 

Orlando  Innamorato,  Ariosto, 
112. 

Outline,  246. 

Ovid,  cited,  19 ;  and  see  92. 

PAGANISM,  112;  and  see  The 
Antique. 

Painting,  Guide's  Aurora,  29  ; 
the  Oriental  and  the  Western 
methods  of  vision,  31,  32 ;  the 
born  painter,  53  ;  its  powers  and 
limits,  63 ;  must  avoid  a  liter- 
ary cast,  7 1  ;  superior  to  poetry 
in  depicting  visible  nature,  202 ; 
and  see  282. 

"  Palace  of  Art,  The,"  Tennyson, 
167. 

Palgrave,  F.  T.,  quoted,  136;  and 
see  172. 

Paradise    Lost,   Milton,   35,   238, 

245- 

Paradise,  II,  Dante,  174. 
Parnassiens,  the  French,  130. 
Parsons,  T.  W.,  "  On  a  Bust  of 

Dante,"  114;  and  see  254. 
Passion,  The   Romantic  view  of 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


323 


Poetry  as  the  lyrical  expression 
of  Emotion,  19,  20,  262  ;  exalted 
national  feeling,  83  ;  intensity 
of  Hebraic  emotion,  83-85;  Sap- 
pho, 87,  88  ;  of  Mrs.  Browning's 
sonnets,  128;  "  Eloisa  to  Abe- 
lard,"  214;  subdued  in  mod- 
ern poetry,  227  ;  as  the  force 
and  excitant  of  imaginative  ex- 
pression, 257,  260-276;  required 
by  the  Miltonic  canon,  27,  260, 
261  ;  defined,  ib. ;  not  love 
alone,  260 ;  as  intense  emotion, 
261 ;  its  use  of  imagination,  ib. ; 
must  be  genuine  and  pure,  262  ; 
modern  understanding  of,  262, 
263  ;  of  Wordsworth,  its  limits, 
263  ;  as  Feeling  and  Sentiment, 
264,  265  ;  of  women  poets,  266  ; 
of  ardor,  joy,  grief,  etc.,  266- 
268  ;  Whittier's,  268  ;  as  art's 
highest  theme,  ib.  ;  its  human 
element,  269 ;  Tennyson's,  in 
youth  and  age,  ib. ;  creation  of 
its  objective  types,  270-272 ; 
exaltation  through  intense  sen- 
sations, 271,  272  ;  reserved 
power  of,  273 ;  absolute  dra- 
matic, 273,  274;  its  occasional 
lulls,  275 ;  excited  by  great  oc- 
casions, 276,  288;  of  the  cries 
of  Faith,  292 ;  and  see  5,  166, 
also  Emotion,  Feeling,  and  The 
Romantic  School. 

Pastoral  Verse.  See  Greek  Bu- 
colic Poetry,  Nature,  Idyllic  Po- 
etry, etc. 

Pater,  W.,  quoted,  159. 

"  Pathetic  Fallacy,"  the,  Ruskin's 
phrase  and  explanation,  204; 


consideration  of,  204-210  ; 
whether  our  feeling  concern- 
ing nature  is  an  illusion,  205 ; 
illustrated  by  Landor  and 
Wordsworth's  treatment  of  the 
sea-shell's  murmur,  205,  206 ; 
Lee-Hamilton's  sonnet  on,  206  ; 
Lowell  on,  207  ;  the  "  illusion  " 
likely  to  be  cherished,  209. 

Patrician  Verse,  "The  Rape  of 
the  Lock,"  214. 

Pattison,  Mark,  on  poetical  prose 
and  the  prose  of  poets,  58  ; 
quoted,  268. 

Payne,  John,  82. 

Pentameron,  The,  Landor,  125. 

Percival,  J.  C,  190. 

Pert  Goriot,  Balzac,  137. 

Pericles  and  Aspasia,  Landor,  124, 
125. 

Periods,  Literary  and  Artistic, 
how  to  determine  their  quality, 
226;  reactionary,  275  ;  the 
older  American,  276;  heroic, 
culminating,  etc.,  ib. ;  and  see 
Alexandrian  Period,  Composite 
Period,  Elizabethan  Period, 
Georgian  Period,  Queen  Anne's 
Time,  Victorian  Period,  etc. 

Persia,  Poetry  of,  in. 

Personality.     See  Subjectivity. 

Pessimism,  291. 

Pheiclias,  150. 

Philip  Van  Artevelde,  Taylor,  104. 

Philistinism,  British,  123  ;  Heine's 
revolt  against,  126 ;  and  see  222, 
290. 

Philosophical  Poetry, —  that  of 
wisdom  and  ethics.  See  Didac- 
ticism, Ethics,  and  Truth. 


324 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


Photographic  Method,  lessons 
taught  by  Muybridge's  camera, 
198,  199 ;  not  to  be  closely  fol- 
lowed, 199  ;  and  see  Realism. 

"  Pied  Piper,  The,"  Browning, 
215. 

Pilot,  The,  Cooper,  137. 

Pindar,  not  strictly  subjective,  83, 
87  ;  and  see  87,  142,  251. 

Pippa  Passes,  Browning,  55. 

Plato,  and  Aristotle,  17;  his  con- 
ception of  poetry  and  the  poet, 
21-24;  "The  Republic,"  21 ;  a 
poet-philosopher,  22;  his  pu- 
pils, 22-24  -f  on  insight,  45 ;  on 
inspiration,  46 ;  and  modern 
transcendentalism,  149;  and  see 

20,  57. 

Platonism,  its  drawbacks,  24 ;  and 
see  Plato. 

Plautus,  loo. 

Plot,  174. 

Plotinus,  23. 

Poe,  on  the  form  of  words,  1 5  ; 
definition  of  poetry,  26,  151  et 
seq. ;  on  music,  65  ;  quoted,  73  ; 
his  passion,  267;  and  see  133, 
178,  183,  242,  283. 

Poet,  the,  his  freedom,  20 ;  Pla- 
tonic idea  of,  21 ;  Plato's  ban- 
ishment of,  from  The  Republic, 

21,  22;  his  two  functions,  28  et 
seq. ;  how  affected  by  the  new 
learning,  34-36 ;  compared  with 
the  savant,  36,  37  ;  his  province 
inalienable,  38 ;  a  creator,  44 ; 
a  revealer,  45 ;  his  power  of  ex- 
pression, 47  ;   his  wisdom,  48  ; 
sensitiveness,   49;    must   be   a 
born  rhythmist,  53  ;  as  a  writer 


of  prose,  57,  58  ;  pseudo-poets, 
60 ;  must  be  articulate,  62 ; 
Lessing  on,  71  ;  may  use  all 
artistic  effects,  id. ;  Emerson, 
149;  a  phenomenalist,  155,  156; 
sees  and  restores  the  beautiful, 
157  ;  expresses  his  true  nature 
and  his  work,  167  ;  his  youthful 
passion  for  the  beautiful,  168; 
his  rendering  of  nature,  188  et 
seq.;  cannot  depict  landscape 
like  the  painter,  202 ;  nature's 
subjective  interpreter,  202,  203 ; 
the  coming  poet,  211  ;  Pope 
213,  214;  Shelley,  218;  his 
final  recognition  of  beauteous 
verity,  220,  221 ;  his  religious 
point  of  view,  221-223;  an  an- 
ecdote, 234 ;  Joubert  on  the 
true  poet,  235  ;  rarely  a  sensu- 
alist, 246 ;  his  imaginative  real- 
ism, 254 ;  his  godlike  creative 
gift,  256,  257  ;  his  vital  spark, 
259 ;  Mill  on,  261  ;  Poe  and 
Emerson,  267  ;  "  of  the  first 
order,"  268 ;  his  line  of  advance, 
269 ;  Stendhal  on,  272 ;  how 
begotten,  276 ;  elder  American 
poets,  ib. ;  must  have  the  "fac- 
ulty divine,"  277 ;  genius  of, 
277-285  ;  Carlyle  on,  278  ;  origi- 
nality of,  283  ;  his  noble  discon- 
tent, 286 ;  the  Vates,  287  ;  his 
modern  distrust,  288ftsey.  ;  his 
station  higher  than  the  critic's, 
297 ;  and  see  Female  Poets, 
Poetry,  nonpros,  etc. 

Poetic  Principle,  The,  Poe's  lec- 
ture, 26. 

POETRY,  as  a  force  in  human  life 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


325 


and  action,  3  ;  why  sometimes 
esteemed  too  lightly,  5,  14;  to 
be  observed  scientifically,  6,  — 
and  in  the  concrete,  8  ;  why  its 
definition  is  needed,  8  ;  it  is  vo- 
cal, 9 ;  as  a  sensation,  15  ;  his- 
toric views  and  definitions  of, 
17-28;  the  antique  view, — Aris- 
totle, Horace,  17  ;  Chapman, 
Dryden,  Landor,  Goethe,  18, 

—  Arnold,    19,  —  traversed   by 
Heine,    18;   the    Romantic,    or 
Emotional    view,  19,    20,  —  By- 
ron,  Moore,   Mills,  19, —  Bas- 
com,  Ruskin,  20 ;  not  opposed 
to  Prose,  ib.  ;  stress  laid  upon 
Imagination  by  Wordsworth  and 
Coleridge,    20,  —  by   Schopen- 
hauer, 21  ;  the  Platonic  view, — 
Plato  in  "  The  Republic,"  etc, 
21  et  seq. ;   Zoroaster  cited,  22, 

—  Cicero,     22,  —  Bacon,    Sid- 
ney, Plotinus,  Carlyle,  Emerson, 
Harris,  23,  24 ;   partial   failure 
of  all  statements,  24,  25  ;  clearer 
modern    views,  —  the    artistic, 
Hazlitt,   Hunt,  Shelley,  Watts, 
25,  26,  28  ;  the  aesthetic  view,  — 
Poe,  26 ;    a  phrase   of  Milton, 

27,  —  of  Arnold,  27;  the  state- 
ment still  incomplete,  28;  poe- 
try as  the  antithesis  to  Science, 

28,  —  what  this  means,  ib.  ;  il- 
lustrated, 29,  30;  effect  of  ex- 
act science  on,  33,  37 ;  Profes- 
sor Hardy's  view  of,  36 ;  Tyn- 
dall  on,  39 ;  Defined  and  exam- 
ined in  relation  to  the  other  Fine 
Arts,  41-73 ;    the   present  a  fit 
time  for  its  consideration,  42;  its 


spirit  not  reducible  to  terms, 
42  ;  a  force,  43,  which  enters  the 
concrete,  ib.  ;  DEFINITION  OF 
POETRY  IN  THE  CONCRETE,  44; 
a  creation,  through  invention 
and  expression,  44;  a  revela- 
tion, through  insight,  45,  46; 
as  an  expression  of  beauty  and 
truth,  46-48 ;  as  an  expression 
of  intellectual  thought,  48,  —  of 
emotion,  49;  as  eminently  an 
art  of  speech,  50 ;  its  language 
essentially  rhythmical,  51-56, 
62 ;  its  vibratory  thrills,  —  their 
rationale,  52  ;  rhythmical  factors 
of,  54 ;  its  rhythmical  impulse 
spontaneous,  and  equal  to  the 
degree  of  emotion,  54,  55  ;  how 
different  from  other  forms  of 
creative  expression,  55,  —  from 
imaginative  prose  fiction,  56,  — 
from  rhetoric,  eloquence,  etc., 
59  ;  rhyme,  etc.,  56 ;  often,  how- 
ever, may  be  cast  in  rhythmical 
prose  form,  58 ;  conforms  to  law, 
consciously  or  otherwise,  62 ; 
must  be  articulate,  62,  63  ;  com- 
pared with  music  and  the  arts 
of  design,  63-71 ;  closely  allied 
with  music,  64 ;  its  achieve- 
ments and  limitations  with  re- 
spect to  sculpture,  67,  —  to 
painting,  68 ;  surpasses  the  rival 
arts  by  command  of  vocal  move- 
ment, thus  infusing  Life,  69-71 ; 
compact  analysis  and  summary 
of,  71,  72;  universal  range  of, 
75 ;  divided  into  two  main 
streams,  —  the  impersonal,  or 
creative,  and  the  personal,  or  self- 


326 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


expressive,  76-81  ;  its  technical 
partition,  into  the  epic,  dra- 
matic, lyric,  etc.,  76 ;  impersonal 
or  unconditioned  song,  77-81, 
94-101,  104 ;  creative  master- 
pieces, 78,  79 ;  self-expressive 
or  subjective  song,  80  tt  seq., 
and  111-145,  passim;  eastern 
Asiatic,  81 ;  Hebraic,  82-87  ; 
Hellenic,  87-90  ;  Latin,  90-94  ; 
must  not  be  disillusionized,  96 ; 
the  grand  drama,  101-107  ; 
modern  and  subjective  drama, 
108-110  ;  Persian, —  Firdusi, 
etc.,  in;  Italian  and  Portu- 
guese epics,  112;  the  "Divina 
Commedia "  and  Dante,  112- 
115;  allegorical,  —  "the  Fairie 
Queene,"  114;  from  Chaucer 
to  Milton,  115  ;  the  great  Puri- 
tan epic,  —  "  Paradise  Lost," 
115-117;  poetry  of  the  Nine- 
teenth Century,  118;  the  Ro- 
mantic Movement,  118-120  ; 
Goethe,  Hugo,  etc.,  119;  of 
Burns,  120;  of  Byron,  120-123; 
Wertherism,  121;  of  sentiment 
in  youth,  122 ;  of  Shelley,  Keats, 
Landor,  Coleridge,  etc.,  123- 
125;  of  Unrest, —  Heine,  125- 
127  ;  its  masculine  and  feminine 
elements,  or  the  major  and 
minor  keys  of  lyric  song,  127  ; 
of  Mrs.  Browning,  128  ;  of  na- 
tional sentiment,  1 28  ;  of  art  for 
art's  sake,  129  et  seq. ;  of  the 
Pre-Raphaelites,  Parnassiens, 
Neo  -  Romanticists,  129,  130; 
latter-day  verse,  130,  131 ;  of 
Scott  and  W.  Morris,  con- 


trasted, 131  ;  of  Swinburne, 
131-133 ;  of  M.  Arnold,  in 
view  of  his  early  theory,  133- 
135  ;  of  the  composite  era,  136  ; 
of  the  antique,  and  that  of 
Christendom,  —  an  estimate  of 
our  loss  and  gain,  139-143  ;  how 
it  must  be  tested,  144  ;  as  an 
artistic  expression  of  the  beauti- 
ful, 147-185;  Poe's  definition  of, 
151,  152;  movements  for  greater 
freedom  and  variety  in,  158 ; 
translations  of,  166;  made  en- 
during by  beauty,  through  natu- 
ral selection,  166-172;  concrete 
beauty  of,  167,  168  ;  survival  of 
classic  masterpieces,  168,  169; 
beauty  of  our  English,  170-172 ; 
modern  art  school  of,  173;  ele- 
ments of  its  concrete  perfec- 
tion, 173-180;  primitive  rhap- 
sody, 175 ;  the  vox  humana, 
178  ;  Mill  and  Poe  on  "  a  long 
poem,"  178 ;  the  pure  lyric, 
178-180;  its  note  of  evanes- 
cence, 181-185  5  trie  didactic 
heresy,  187  ;  element  of  Truth 
in,  187-223  ;  "  description,"  its 
strength  and  weakness,  189,  190, 
202 ;  breadth  of,  vs.  analysis, 
191-193;  naturalness,  193;  "re- 
flection," of  nature,  194-196  ; 
realistic,  196-199;  local  flavor, 
200 ;  subjective  expression  of 
nature,  202-204;  "the  pathetic 
fallacy  "  in,  illustrated  by  Lan- 
dor, Wordsworth,  etc.,  and  re- 
futed by  Lee-Hamilton,  204- 
207 ;  of  nature,  its  modern  im- 
portance, 210;  a  life -school 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


327 


needed,  211;  of  wisdom,  the  | 
higher  philosophical,  211-217; 
elements  of  humor  in,  215; 
true,  yet  free,  219,  220  ;  lack  of 
imagination  and  passion  in  re- 
cent, 225-227  ;  other  modern 
traits  of,  225,  226;  the  imagina- 
tive element  in,  225-258  ;  "  spas- 
modic," 235 ;  obscurity,  ib.  :  its 
peopled  wonderland,  238 ;  sug- 
gestive, 239;  diction  of,  240  et 
seq. ;  supernaturalism  in,  236, 
243 ;  of  the  Vague,  246 ;  of 
Fancy,  247 ;  English,  249 ;  "  ele- 
mental," 250-254;  passion  its 
incentive,  257  ;  as  product  of  "the 
faculty  divine,"  259-297  ;  ele- 
ment of  Passion  in,  260-276; 
Wordsworth's  statement  of, 
263;  of  Scotland,  264;  of  Eng- 
lish sentiment,  265, —  of  Ameri- 
can, 267,  268 ;  of  intense  emo- 
tions and  impassioned  types, 
270  et  seq.  ;  true  naturalism  of, 
273 ;  the  absolutely  dramatic, 
274  ;  of  heroic  crises,  276,  288  ; 
Genius,  277-285  ;  Insight,  Inspi- 
ration, etc.,  285-288 ;  of  Pro- 
phecy, 287  ;  Faith  indispensable 
to,  288-294 ;  of  the  Church  Lit- 
urgy, 291  et  seq. ;  future  of, 
296;  concerning  the  study  of, 
296,  297  ;  its  present  dissemina- 
tion, 297 ;  and  see  INTRODUC- 
TION, passim,  also  Analytic  Po- 
etry, Bible,  Christendom,  Chris~ 
tianity,  Descriptive  Poetry,  Dra- 
matic Poetry,  Elegiac  Poetry, 
Epic  Poetry,  Gnomic  Poetry, 
Heroic  Poetry,  Idyllic  Poetry, 


Lyrical  Poetry,  Narrative  PC  • 
etry,  Norse  Poetry,  Orientalism, 
Reflective  Poetry,  Society-Verse, 
etc. 

POETS  OF  AMERICA,  by  the  author 
of  this  volume:  references  to, 
35,  101,  137,  160,  190,  211,  226, 
246,  252,  268. 

rioiTjT^y,  Aristotle  on,  17. 

Pope,  Byron  on,  19;  question  of 
his  genius,  213-215;  his  didac- 
ticism, 213;  was  he  a  poet?  ib. ; 
compared  with  modern  leaders, 
215;  and  see  116,  172. 

Prayer  Book,  the  Episcopal.  See 
The  Church  Liturgy. 

Pre-Raphaelitism,  concurrent  in 
various  arts,  50 ;  and  see  1 58, 
225. 

Pretension  of  would-be  genius, 
280. 

Prevision  of  the  imagination,  239. 

Primitive  Poetry,  sagas,  folk-lore, 
ballads,  etc.,  78. 

Prince  Deukalion,  Taylor,  254. 

Princess,  The,  Tennyson,  237,  264. 

Prior,  94. 

"  Problem,  The,"  Emerson,  55. 

Procter,  B.  W.,  179. 

Production,  rather  than  motive, 
the  test,  169. 

Prometheus  Bound,  ^Eschylus,  98, 
104. 

Prometheus  Unbound,  Shelley, 
124,  132. 

Prophetic  Faculty,  the  poet  as 
Vates,  23  ;  the  Hebraic,  84  ;  of 
Blake,  234 ;  its  vision,  285  ;  and 
see  287,  also  Inspiration. 

Prose,  the  antithesis  of  verse,  20  ; 


328 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


injured  by  use  of  poetic  rhythm, 

57,  59 ;  the  prose  of  poets,  58, 

—  of  various   rhapsodists,   ib. ; 

the  rhythmical  prose  form,  ib. ; 

Arnold's,  294 ;  and  see  Fiction. 
Protagonists  of  the  grand  drama, 

104. 

Proven9al  Poetry,  168. 
Prudhomme,  Sully,  131. 
Psalms,  the  Hebrew,  84,  85. 
Psychical  Quality,  177. 
Psychological  School,  80. 
Public   Opinwn,   ultimate,  to  be 

respected,  277. 

Purpose,  must  be  earnest,  288,  289. 
Puttenham,  George,  quoted,  198. 

QUALITY,  the  grace  of  lyric  poets, 

178. 

Queen  Anne's  time,  213,  214. 
Quintus,  169. 
Quotations,  miscellaneous,  30, 90, 

140,  222,  285,  296. 

RACE,  81  ;  Latin  traits  distin- 
guished from  the  Greek,  90 ; 
Latin  quality  and  Gothic,  264; 
and  see  Hebraism,  Hellenism, 
Japanese,  etc. 

Randall,  J.  R.,  266. 

"Randolph  of  Roanoke,"  Whit- 
tier,  268. 

Rape  of  the  Lock,  The,  Pope,  214, 
215. 

Raphael,  150;  cited,  197. 

Raphaelitism,  Academic,  157. 

Ratiocination.  See  Analytic  Po- 
etry. 

Reaction.     See  Periods,  Literary. 

Realism,  dramatic,   107;   lacking 


in  Milton's  early  poems,  116; 
and  romanticism,  145,  199;  and 
beauty,  150 ;  descriptive  de- 
tails, 190;  of  the  Elizabethan 
drama,  191  ;  Whitman's,  true 
and  false,  196 ;  not  a  display  of 
facts,  ib. ;  not  a  servile  imita- 
tion, 197  ;  Tennyson  on,  198  ; 
must  conform  to  human  percep- 
tions, 198,  199;  photography, 
199 ;  should  be  idealized,  ib. 

"  Reapers,  The,"  Theocritus,  179. 

Reason,  or  intellectual  method, 
284. 

Recent  Poetry,  characteristics  of, 
288,  289. 

Reflective  Poetry,  a  modern  type, 
76 ;  of  Wordsworth,  189 ;  of 
Nature,  WTordsworth  and  Bry- 
ant, 194,  195  ;  Wordsworth's 
self -contemplation,  203,  204; 
modern  speculation,  207 ;  and 
see  Truth,  Didacticism,  etc. 

Religion,  its  "  conflict  with  sci- 
ence," 33  ;  piety  of  the  artist's 
labors,  221,  —  his  conception 
of  Deity,  222 ;  the  God  of  truth 
also  the  God  of  art,  joy,  song, 
222,  223. 

Renaissance,  112  ;  tentative  re- 
volts and  new  movements  in 
art,  158-161;  the  Italian,  160; 
the  "Colonial"  revival,  161. 

Repose  in  art  and  poetry,  273. 

Republic,  The,  Plato's,  21,  22. 

Republicanism,  its  "  applied  "  im- 
agination, 229. 

Reserve,  professional,  cause  of, 
12-14. 

Reserved  Power,  272,  273. 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


329 


Retentive  Faculty.  See  Imagina- 
tion. 

Revelation,  of  scientific  truth,  33 
et  seq. ;  through  poetic  insight, 
45 ;  and  see  Inspiration  and  In- 
sight. 

Revolt,  Poetry  of,  123-126,  pas- 
sim. 

Reynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  50;  as  an 
Academician,  161,  162. 

Rhapsodists,  the,  9  ;  primitive  re- 
counters,  79. 

Rhetoric,  and  Poetry,  Milton  on, 
27  ;  and  see  59. 

Rhyme,  "  a  memory  and  a  hope," 
54 ;  not  essential  to  rhythm,  56 ; 
uses  of,  ib.  ;  "  the  Walkers  and 
Barnums,"  77. 

Rhythm,  its  importance  empha- 
sized by  Shelley,  Watts,  and 
others,  25,  26 ;  Poe  on,  26 ;  the 
guild-mark  of  uttered  poetry, 
51-59  ;  its  universal  and  myste- 
rious potency  in  nature  and  art, 
51,  52;  vibrations  of,  52;  is 
spontaneous,  53 ;  method,  fac- 
tors, and  phenomena,  54,  56 ; 
correspondence  with  linguistic 
meaning,  ib. ;  Mill  on,  55 ;  po- 
etic, distinct  from  that  of  prose, 
and  out  of  place  in  prose,  56- 
59 ;  freed  by  Milton,  1 16  ;  splen- 
dor and  melody  of  Shelley's 
and  of  Swinburne's,  132  ;  dan- 
gers of  excessive,  132,  133 ; 
search  for  new  effects,  1 58 ; 
Whitman's  and  Lanier's  at- 
tempts to  make  symphonic,  196 ; 
Cowper  and  the  return  to  flexi- 
ble verse,  214 


Richter  ("  Jean  Paul "),  58,  183. 

Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner,  The, 
Coleridge,  236,  238. 

Ring  and  the  Book,  The,  Brown- 
ing, 192. 

"  Rizpah,"  Tennyson,  270. 

Romance,  Prose.     See  Fiction. 

Romanticism,  emotional  concep- 
tion of  poetry,  by  Byron,  Moore, 
Mill,  etc.,  19,  20;  "  The  Roman- 
tic School,"  ib.,  118, —  traits  and 
leaders  of,  1 18-127,  —  theory  of> 
262 ;  vs.  realism,  145,  199 ;  the 
true,  151 ;  French  and  German, 
243 ;  its  key  note,  267. 

Romantic  School,  The,  Heine,  f  18. 

Romola,  Mrs.  Cross,  137. 

Ronsard,  171. 

Rood,  O.  N.,  scientist,  35. 

"  Rose  Aylmer,"  Landor,  184. 

Rossetti,  Christina,  269. 

Rossetti,  D.  G.,  human  passion  of, 
269 ;  and  see  130,  131,  158,  168, 
238,  283. 

Rousseau,  painter,  246. 

Rowland,  H.  A.,  physicist,  35. 

Rubdiydt,  Omar  Khayyam,  212 ; 
quoted,  217. 

Rubinstein,  A.,  musician,  9. 

Rules,  their  inefficiency,  II. 

Ruskin,  on  the  nature  of  poetry, 
20 ;  on  the  "pathetic  fallacy," 
204  et  seq. ;  cited,  142 ;  and  see 

So,  58- 
Ruth,  The  Book  of,  175. 

SADNESS,  an  effect  of  beauty,  267. 
Sainte-Beuve,  critic,  143. 
Salvini,  actor,  no. 
[  Samson  Agonistes,  Milton,  116. 


330 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


Sanborn,  F.  B.,  22. 

Sanity  of  genius,  284. 

Sappho,  genius  and  relics  of,  87, 

88 ;  and  see  262. 
Satire   and   Irony  —  Dante,   114; 

Heine's  mocking  note,  127. 
Saturday  Review,  The,  on  genius, 

279. 

"  Saul,"  Browning,  109. 
Savant,  the.     See  Science. 
Scarlet  Letter,    The,  Hawthorne, 

55.  '37- 

Schiller,  on  rhythm,  54;  quoted, 
108  ;  and  see  18,  237. 

Schlegel,  A.  W.,  on  Taste,  47; 
cited,  92;  and  see  26,  143. 

Schools,  in  Art  and  Letters,  con- 
tests between  the  realists  and 
romanticists,  the  academicians 
and  the  impressionists,  etc.,  144, 
145, 157, 199  ;  how  evolved,  151 ; 
and  see  INTRODUCTION. 

Schopenhauer,  on  the  imagina- 
tion, 21;  on  the  musician,  65; 
quoted,  130;  and  see  270. 

Science,  —  economics,  sociology, 
and  poetry,  14;  its  apparent 
deprecation  of  aesthetics,  ib.,  — 
but  only  to  afford  a  new  basis, 
152;  as  the  antithesis  to  Poetry, 
20,  21,  28;  how  far  antithetical, 
28  ;  illustrated  —  by  the  Auro- 
ra fresco,  29,  by  poetry  and  the 
weather  bureau,  30  ;  the  distinc- 
tion one  of  methods,  31, 32  ;  dis- 
covery through  imagination,  32; 
science  and  religion,  33  ;  discus- 
sion of  science  and  poetry,  in 
Victorian  Poets,  33;  effect  on 
poetic  diction  and  imagery,  34 ; 


intuitions  of  the  savants,  35  et 
seg.  ;  Prof.  A.  S.  Hardy  on,  36- 
38;  inferring  immortality  from 
evolution,  37  ;  control  of  public 
interest,  38 ;  really  an  adjuvant 
to  poetry,  38,  39 ;  Tyndall  on 
Emerson,  39  ;  its  beginnings 
suggested  in  Diirer's  "  Melenco- 
lia,"  140,  141 ;  men  of,  their  vi- 
tality, 142  ;  our  attitude  toward 
Nature,  207  ;  Lucretius  and  the 
De  Rerum  Natura,  212,  217; 
the  new  learning,  220,  296 ; 
the  modern  speculative  imagi- 
nation, 228 ;  and  the  future, 
250 ;  evolution,  257 ;  and  the 
new  faith,  291. 

Science  of  Verse,  The,  Lanier,  61. 

Scotland,  poetry  of,  264. 

Scott,  Walter,  contrasted  with 
Morris,  etc.,  131,  —  with  Ar- 
nold, 135  ;  source  of  his  lyrical 
method,  238;  quoted,  181 ;  and 
see  60,  121,  263. 

Sculpture,  the  sculptor's  working 
method,  6;  specific  province  of, 
63 ;  how  far  imitated  by  poetry, 
67 ;  opportunity  of  our  native 
sculptors,  200;  Ward,  Dono- 
ghue,  Tilrlen,  200  ;  and  see  13. 

"  Sea-Shell  Murmurs,"  Lee-Ham- 
ilton, 206. 

Seasons,  The,  Thomson,  189. 

Self-Consciousness.  See  Subjec- 
tivity. 

Self-Expression.    See  Subjectivity. 

Semitic  literature.  See  Bible,  Po- 
etry of  the. 

Senancour,  135. 

Sensation,  Human,  art  must  be 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


331 


adapted  to  our  faculties,  198, 
199. 

Sensibility,  Poetic,  122. 

Sensitiveness  —  is  genius  a  neuro- 
tic disorder  ?  141,  142. 

Sensuality,  outlawed  of  the  high- 
est art,  262. 

Sensuousness,  the  Miltonic  canon, 
27 ;  how  sensuous  impressions 
affect  the  soul,  154;  required 
by  Goethe,  247  ;  and  see  262. 

Sententiousness,  the  gift  of  "  say- 
ing things,"  213. 

Sentiment,  lyrical,  of  southern 
Europe,  264 ;  of  British  song, 
264,  265  ;  and  see  Passion. 

Sentimentalism,  foreign  to  our 
analysis,  8 ;  of  the  minor  By- 
ronic  poets,  121;  Keats  on,  in 
the  preface  to  "  Endymion," 
122;  and  see  265. 

Seriousness  —  the  poetry  of  Chris- 
tendom, 143. 

Shah  Nameh,  Firdusi,  III. 

Shairp,  J.  C.,  218. 

Shakespeare,  his  dramatic  insight, 
69 ;  subjective  sonnets,  etc.,  79, 
1 68;  wisdom  of,  98;  the  unre- 
vealed  and  "  myriad-minded," 
101 ;  the  playwright,  stage  and 
period,  105 ;  and  Homer,  106 ; 
The  Tempest,  106,  107  ;  imper- 
sonality of,  107;  "not  a  man 
of  letters,"  151;  his  truth  to 
nature,  189;  his  stage  effects, 
191  ;  his  errors  of  fact  immate- 
rial, 201  ;  the  preeminent  ex- 
emplar of  the  imaginative  fac- 
ulty, 229-231 ;  his  future  hold, 
230 ;  intelligibility  of,  236 ;  his 


absolutely  imaginative  beings, 
238 ;  not  strong  in  construction, 
238 ;  verbal  felicity  of,  240 ;  his 
artistic  self-control,  243;  and 
Webster,  249 ;  method  of,  273  ; 
his  dramas  and  the  stage,  274  ; 
his  faith,  290;  quoted,  229,  236, 
274;  and  see  57,  76,  113,  128, 
170,  172,  179,  248,  256,  283. 

Shelley,  his  Defense  of  Poetry,  25  ; 
The  Cenci,  69;  Arnold  on,  117, 
118;  poetry  and  character  of, 
123, 124  ;  as  Swinburne's  prede- 
cessor, 132  ;  his  mission  ethical, 
218;  false  criticism  of  his  life 
and  works,  ib.',  his  diction,  241 ; 
as  the  "  poet  of  cloudland,"  246 ; 
his  imagination,  ib. ;  quoted, 
143,  266;  and  see  89,  90,  169, 
173,  179,  208,  251,  290. 

Shelley,  Mary  (Godwin),  246. 

Shenstone,  W.,  on  poets  as  crit- 
ics, 12. 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  in  the  Defense 
ofPoesie,  23;  a  maxim  of,  140; 
quoted,  62,  258 ;  and  see  57. 

Sienkiewicz,  novelist,  137. 

Simonides,  87. 

Simplicity,  Milton's  requirement, 
27 ;  essential  to  beauty,  175- 
177  ;  of  the  Hebrew  idyls,  175 ; 
of  the  antique  and  of  the  mod- 
ern, 176;  may  be  assumed,  177; 
poetic  force  of  a  direct  and  sim- 
ple statement,  193,  194 ;  Bry- 
ant's, 252. 

Sincerity,  averse  to  foreign  and 
classical  reproductions,  201 ;  no- 
ble skepticism,  217;  of  emo- 
tion, 261. 


332 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


"  Single-  Poem  Poets,"  171. 

"  Sir  Galahad,"  Tennyson,  266. 

"  Sisters,  The,"  Tennyson,  270. 

Skepticism,  the  nobler,  of  Lucre- 
tius, Omar,  Shelley,  etc.,  217  et 
seq. ;  and  see  Faith. 

Smyth,  A.  H.,  quoted,  169,  170. 

Snider,  D.  J.,  on  the  Homeric 
epos,  95. 

Snow-Bound,  Whittier,  268. 

Society  Drama,  275. 

Society  Verse,  Horace  and  his 
successors,  93 ;  and  see  226. 

Sohrab  and  Rustum,  Arnold,  134, 
194. 

Songs  and  Lyrics,  Jonson's, 
Fletcher's,  Suckling's,  Waller's, 
French  chansons,  etc.,  170-172 ; 
endurance  of,  ib. ;  translation 
of,  ib. ;  songs  —  as  distinguished 
from  the  pure  lyric,  178,  —  Eng- 
lish, German,  etc.,  179,  —  mar- 
•tial,  national,  etc.,  266;  English 
song  dirges,  184. 

Songs  before  Sunrise,  Swinburne, 
262. 

Sonnets,  Milton's,  117  ;  Rossetti's 
House  of  Life,  269. 

Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese,  Mrs. 
Browning,  128. 

Sophocles,  on  ^Eschylus,  46 ;  and 
the  Greek  drama,  98,  99 ;  im- 
personality of,  107 ;  and  see 
142,  169,  190,  238. 

Sordello,  Browning,  108. 

Sound.    See  Rhythm  and  Melody. 

Southey,  235. 

Specialists,  poetic,  80. 

Speech.     See  Language. 

Spencer,  Herbert,  on  music,  65. 


Spenser,  as  a  picture-maker,  67  ; 
art  of,  170;  and  see  90,  115, 
249. 

Spirituality,  the  universal  extra- 
mundane  conception  of  beauty, 
163. 

Spontaneity,  a  test  of,  II  ;  Ar- 
nold's, 134;  vs.  the  common- 
place, 219;  and  see  135,  227, 
264,  284,  285. 

Stage,  The,  Elizabethan,  191 ;  and 
see  27 1 ;  also  The  Drama. 

"  St.  Agnes,"  Tennyson,  266. 

St.  Gaudens,  A.,  sculptor,  13. 

Stendhal.     See  M.  H.  Beyle. 

Sterility,  metrical  impotence,  — 
want  of  creative  power  in  adroit 
mechanicians,  44 ;  uncreative 
periods,  48. 

Stoddard,  Elizabeth,  253 ;  her  nov- 
els, 273. 

Stoddard,  R.  H.,  "  An  Horatian 
Ode,"  239  ;  his  imaginative  odes 
and  blank  verse,  252;  quoted, 
237  ;  and  see  129,  179. 

Straffbrd,  Browning,  no. 

Street,  A.  B.,  190. 

Style,  Browning's  lack  of,  91 ; 
Tennyson's,  91 ;  charm  of  Ver- 
gil's, 91 ;  Shakespeare's,  109  ; 
the  Miltonic,  1 16 ;  extreme  indi- 
viduality of  Swinburne's,  132, 
133;  is  subjective,  144;  direct- 
ness, 192,  193 ;  methods  as  af- 
fecting quality,  214,215;  "The 
grand  manner,"  248. 

Subjectivity  (the  personal  note), 
one  of  the  two  ruling  qualities 
of  art,  77  ;  the  subjective  poet, 
80,  8 1  ;  specialists,  ib. ;  how  far 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


333 


a  trait  of  the  speechless  arts,  80  ; 
of  the  Hebrew  lyrists,  82-85 ; 
modern  self-consciousness,  85  ; 
of  the  Greek  lyrists,  anthologists, 
idyllists,  87-90;  of  Euripides 
and  his  satirist,  88 ;  of  style, 
as  in  Vergil,  etc.,  91 ;  of  Latin 
song,  92-94 ;  the  cry  of  adoles- 
cence, 79,  101 ;  the  subjective 
modern  drama  of  Browning, 
1 08;  subjective  undertone  of 
later  epic  masterpieces,  111,112; 
of  Dante,  113;  beginning  of 
English  self-expression,  115; 
of  Milton's  epic  and  sonnets, 
115-118;  typical  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  118;  finds  its 
extreme  in  the  Romantic  and 
Georgian  schools,  118-127  ;  ne- 
cessity for  self  -  utterance  in 
youth,  its  force  and  dangers, 
121  ;  Byron  an  eminent  exem- 
plar of,  122,  123;  Shelley's, 
124  ;  Heine's,  125-127  ;  may  be 
termed  feminine,  127;  Mrs. 
Browning's,  128;  qualified  vi- 
sion of  the  modern  art-school, 
129  et  seq.;  of  style,  in  Swin- 
burne, 131  ;  a  matter  of  tempera- 
ment, 133 ;  Arnold's  theory 
against,  133,  —  his  subjective 
poetry,  134,  135;  not  opposed 
to  genius,  139 ;  a  pervading 
characteristic  of  the  poetry  of 
Christendom,  as  contrasted  with 
the  antique,  139-143;  sympa- 
thetic quality,  140;  its  intro- 
spection typified  by  Diirer's 
"  Melencolia,"  140,  141  ;  to 
what  extent  neurotic  sensitive- 


ness, 141,  142 ;  resulting  loss 
and  gain,  142 ;  great  worth  of 
individuality  in  style  and  feel- 
ing, 143  et  seq. ;  the  poet  finds 
in  nature  his  own  mood,  202- 
204;  the  "pathetic  fallacy," 
204-210;  of  English  emotional 
verse,  265  ;  and  see  250. 

Sublimity,  of  the  Vague,  244 ;  and 
see  Imagination. 

Suckling,  Sir  J.,  171. 

Suggestiveness,  in  Japanese  art, 
31 ;  an  imaginative  factor,  239; 
and  see  59. 

Supernatural,  the,  not  always  an 
imaginative  element,  236,  —  but 
sometimes  purely  so,  238 ;  of 
the  Southern  and  Northern  lit- 
eratures, compared,  243. 

Supernaturalism,  of  Camoens  and 
Milton,  245. 

Swift,  94. 

Swinburne,  subjective  style  of, 
132 ;  strength  and  beauty  of 
his  dramas,  132  ;  certain  results 
of  his  lyrical  individuality,  132, 
133 ;  his  erotic  verse  and  true 
passion,  262 ;  quoted,  63 ;  and 
see  131,  179,  200,  203,  251. 

Symbolism.     See  Allegory. 

Sympathetic  quality.  See  Subjec- 
tivity. 

Sympathy,  poets  of,  268. 

Symphonic  quality,  —  the  Liturgy, 
293- 

TAINE,  8,  50 ;  his  theory  of  envi- 
ronment, etc.,  276- 

Tale  of  Two  Cities,  A,  Dickens, 
55.  i37. 


334 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


Talent,  as  distinguished  from  ge- 
nius, 279 ;  value  of,  ib. 

"  Talking  Oak,  The,"  Tennyson, 
215. 

"  Tarn  o'  Shanter,"  Burns,  268. 

Tasso,  79,  112. 

Taste,  renounced  by  Wordsworth, 
20 ;  Poe's  view  of  its  preemi- 
nence, 26 ;  as  wrongly  forsworn 
by  certain  poets,  47  ;  Schlegel 
on,  ib. ;  often  falsely  assumed, 
48 ;  "  the  artistic  ethics  of  the 
soul,"  49 ;  discordant,  how  pro- 
duced, 158  ;  inborn,  though  cul- 
tivable, 161 ;  and  fashion,  ib.; 
limitations  of  Anglo-Saxon,  ib.  ; 
the  maxim  De  gustibus,  166; 
not  always  allied  with  creative 
faculty,  280;  an  exquisite  pos- 
session, 280,  281  ;  and  see  283. 

Taylor,  Bayard,  imaginative  po- 
ems of,  254;  and  see  129,  195. 

Taylor,  Sir  H.,  Philip  van  Arte- 
velde,  104;  dramas  of,  132. 

Taylor,  Jeremy,  59. 

Technique,  poetic  forms,  meas- 
ures, etc.,  77  ;  Hebraic  allitera- 
tion, parallelism,  etc.,  85  ;  blank 
verse,  105;  modern  mastery  of, 
130,  225 ;  "  French  Forms," 
158;  over-elaboration  and  over- 
decoration,  177. 

Temperament,  Hugo's,  119;  Lan- 
der's, Alfieri's,  etc.,  125,  133; 
the  artistic  is  androgynous,  127  ; 
modern  view  of  the  poetic,  141 ; 
the  Greek,  142 ;  governs  a  po- 
et's product,  133 ;  Arnold's  in 
conflict  with  his  theory,  133- 
135;  should  be  respected,  135, 


136;  the  English,  as  respects 
taste,  161 ;  of  Pope,  214. 

Tempest,  The,  Shakespeare,  analy- 
sis of  its  components,  106,  107. 

Tennyson,  his  "  Day  -  Dream  " 
quoted,  68-70 ;  as  poet-painter, 
68,  70 ;  early  poems  of,  168 ; 
as  a  technicist,  177 ;  his  dra- 
mas, 191 ;  as  a  poet  of  nature, 
193;  as  an  idyllist,  ib.;  on 
Truth,  198  ;  In  Memoriam,  the 
representative  Victorian  poem, 
212;  sententiousness  of,  213, 
215  ;  The  Princess,  237  ;  vocab- 
ulary of,  242  ;  anecdote  of,  255 ; 
his  gain  in  passion,  269 ;  quoted, 
35,  102,  167,  187,  208,  264,  291  ; 
and  see  10,  130,  131,  136,  142, 
172,  179,  200,  225,  235,  266,  268. 

Terence,  100. 

Thackeray,  cited,  103;  and  see 
58,  137,  215,  283. 

"Thalysia,"  Theocritus,  90. 

"  Thanatopsis,"  Bryant,  252. 

Theatre.  See  The  Drama  and 
Dramatic  Poetry. 

Theme,  not  always  the  essential 
factor,  236. 

Theocritus,  Vergil's  imitations  of, 
91  ;  quoted,  1 79 ;  and  see  90, 

193- 

Theognis,  212. 

Thomson,  James  [1834-82],  133. 
Thomson,  The  Seasons,  189. 
Thoreau,  193. 
Thought,  poetry  as  the  voice  of 

the  conscious  intellect,  48 ;  must 

not  disregard   beauty,  48,  49; 

exact,  inexpressible   by  music, 

66;  and  see  147. 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


335 


Thoughts  on  Poetry,  Mill,  20. 

Three  Memorial  Poems,  Lowell, 
267. 

"  Threnody,"  Emerson,  267. 

Tilden,  American  sculptor,  200. 

"  Tintern  Abbey,"  Wordsworth, 
205. 

Tolstoi,  137. 

"  To  Mary  in  Heaven,"  Burns, 
265. 

"To  the  Sunset  Breeze,"  Whit- 
man, 253. 

Tourgenieff,  novelist,  58,  137. 

Tradition,  the  war  upon,  290. 

Tragedy,  Aristotle's  definition, 
103 ;  ethics  of,  ib.  ;  why  it  ex- 
alts the  soul,  103,  271,  272;  its 
reconciliation  of  Deity  and  Des- 
tiny, 104 ;  and  see  The  Drama. 

Training,  poetic,  9-11  ;  cleverness 
of  modern,  59-61  ;  a  true  voca- 
tion indispensable,  60;  "The 
Science  of  Verse,"  61 ;  self- 
consciousness  in  youth,  101 ; 
Heine's  song-motive,  127 ;  of 
the  taste,  166 ;  effects  of  town 
and  of  country  in  youth,  195 ; 
the  formative  period,  218;  ju- 
venile contemporaneousness, 
226 ;  a  neophyte's  errors,  235. 

Transcendentalism,  from  Plato  to 
Emerson,  21-24;  the  Concord 
School,  23,  24;  indifference  to 
form,  beauty,  etc.,  of  certain 
modern  idealists,  149. 

Transition  Periods,  114;  the  re- 
cent one,  294. 

Translation,  from  the  Sanscrit, 
Arabic,  etc.,  82  ;  English  ver- 
sion of  the  Hebrew  Scripture, 


85 ;  renderings  from  the  Greek 
anthology,  by  Cory,  Lang,  etc., 
89 ;  does  not  convey  the  full 
beauty  of  a  poem,  166;  of  early 
French  chansons,  etc.,  171. 

Trilogy,  Swinburne's,  of  Mary 
Stuart,  132. 

Tristia,  Ovid,  92. 

Truth,  the  essential  verities,  4 ; 
wisdom  and  ethics  of  the  grand 
drama,  97-104 ;  Browning's  phi- 
losophy, 108;  Dante  as  an  ethi- 
cal teacher,  114;  The  Faerie 
Queene,  114;  pure,  symbolized 
by  beauty,  168;  as  an  element 
of  poetry,  187-223;  what  is 
meant  by  its  unity  with  beauty, 
187  ;  the  didactic  heresy  as  the 
gospel  of  half-truths,  188;  a 
matter  of  course  in  good  art, 
189 ;  incidental,  better  than  pre- 
meditated, ib. ;  side-glimpses  of 
it  more  effective  than  details, 
190 ;  broad  and  universal,  or 
minute  and  analytic,  191,  192 ; 
of  Browning  and  Tennyson,  in 
comparison,  192,  193 ;  requires 
naturalness,  193;  force  of  its 
direct  statement,  193,  194;  of 
Wordsworth  and  Bryant's  broad 
method,  194;  of  the  American 
poets  of  nature,  195,  196;  not  a 
display  of  mere  facts,  196;  nor 
a  servile  imitation,  197  ;  is  alive 
with  interpretation.  198 ;  must 
pay  regard,  also,  to  things  as 
they  appear  to  be,  198;  of  real- 
ism and  ideality,  199 ;  of  fidelit" 
to  one's  environment,  ib. ;  of 
"local  flavor,"  200 ;  of  sincerity, 


336 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


201 ;  not  to  fetter  the  poet's 
imagination,  201  ;  mere  descrip- 
tion unsatisfactory,  202 ;  largely 
subjective,  202,  203;  question 
of  the  "  pathetic  fallacy,"  204- 
210;  of  nature's  apparent  sym- 
pathy, 205 ;  scientific  truth,  the 
fearless  desire  for,  207 ;  philo- 
sophical truth,  211-219;  °f  the 
higher  didacticism,  211-213;  of 
ethical  insight,  216;  of  a  noble 
iconoclasm,  217-219 ;  hostile  to 
the  commonplace,  219 ;  free 
and  alert,  220 ;  finally  coherent 
with  beauty,  220,  221  ;  the  God 
of,  also  the  God  of  art,  223; 
and  see  46,  147,  also  Ethics  and 
Didacticism. 

Tudor  sonneteers,  115. 

TURNBULL  MEMORIAL  LECTURE- 
SHIP, THE  PERCY,  4 ;  its  found- 
ers, 6 ;  design  of  its  initial 
course,  ib. ;  theory  of  these  lec- 
tures, 76  ;  and  see  93. 

Turnbull,  Percy  Graeme,  93;  and 
see  INTRODUCTION. 

Turner,  J.  W.  M.,  painter,  210,  246. 

Two  Worlds,  Gilder,  257. 

Tyndall,  scientist,  quoted,  39. 

UNCONSCIOUS,  THEORY  OF  THE, 
Hartmann,  46,  147,  156. 

Universality,  of  the  arts,  13; 
world -poems,  112;  Shake- 
speare's, 230;  of  genius,  283; 
and  see  191. 

"Universal  Prayer,  The,"  Pope, 
214. 

Universities,  ideal  side  of,  4,  5. 

Utility,  its  relation  to  beauty,  156; 


La  Farge  on   the   relations  of 
fitness  and  beauty,  163. 
Utterance,  poetry  is,  62;  and  see 
264,  also  Expression  and  Lan- 
guage. 

VAGUE,  THE,  imaginative  effect 
of,  244-247  ;  in  Hebrew  poetry, 
244;  in  Camoens,  Milton,  Cole- 
ridge, 244,  245 ;  in  Shelley's 
cloudland,  246;  of  thought  and 
style,  its  reflex  action,  235. 

Vanity  Fair,  Thackeray,  137. 

Variety,  advance  in  poetic  mate- 
rials for  color,  diction,  etc., 
176. 

Vates,  the,  287. 

Vedder,  E.,  painter,  212. 

Velasquez,  painter,  150. 

Vergil,  the  Vergilian  style,  91 ; 
"  Tu  Marcellus  eris,"  93 ;  quo- 
ted, 286;  and  see  43,  212. 

Veron,  E.,  critic,  his  subjective 
theory  of  Beauty  and  the  ^Es- 
thetic, 152,  157;  cited  concern- 
ing Genius,  283. 

Vers  de  Societe.  See  Society 
Verse. 

Verse,  the  true  antithesis  of  Prose, 
20. 

Versifiers  and  Verse-making,  8, 
ii,  13;  delusion  of  poetasters, 
24 ;  Milton  on  rhymers,  etc.,  27  ; 
Sidney  on,  62. 

Vibrations,  their  function,  as  the 
only  media  through  which  im- 
pressions reach  the  incarnate 
human  soul,  52,  —  the  soul 
thrilled  by,  and  responsive  to 
them,  ib. ;  impalpable,  53  ;  mu- 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


337 


sical,  65  ;  excite  reflex  action, 
72 ;  their  expression  of  the 
quality  of  Beauty,  153-155;  ac- 
tually operative,  1 54 ;  appeal, 
through  all  the  senses  alike,  to 
spiritual  feeling,  ib. ;  Beauty's 
under-vibration,  180;  and  see 
Rhythm,  etc.,  and  INTRODUC- 
TION. 

Victorian  Period,  School  of,  55 ; 
Browning,  no;  In  Memoriam, 
212;  its  reserve,  265;  and  see 
125,  138. 

VICTORIAN  POETS,  by  the  author 
of  this  volume :  references  to, 
33,  61,  108,  177,  192,  226,  269. 

Villon,  167,  171,  184. 

Virility,  of  the  ancients,  142;  of 
scientists,  ib. ;  of  recent  poets, 
ib.  ;  healthfulness  of  imperson- 
al effort,  142 ;  and  see  Mascu- 
linity. 

Vision,  absolute  and  uncondi- 
tioned, 77-80  ;  conditioned,  80 ; 
clearness  of  the  artistic,  233; 
Blake  on,  ib.. ;  the  poet  depen- 
dent on,  234 ;  and  see  255. 

Vocabulary,  the  poet's,  how  ac- 
quired, 10;  and  see  Diction. 

Volapiik,  216. 

Voltaire,  82. 

WALLENSTEIN,  Schiller,  104. 
Waller,  171. 

Ward,  J.  Q.  A.,  sculptor,  13,  200. 
Watts,  T.,  essay  on  Poetry  in  the 

Encyc.  Brit.,  25,  26,  28. 
Waverley  Novels,  the,  131. 
Webster,  John,  108 ;  The  fiuchess 

of  Malfi,  249. 


Webster,  D.,  and  Choate,  remi- 
niscence of,  192. 

"  Wertherism,"  121. 

Westward  Ho  !  Kingsley,  137. 

"  West  Wind,  Ode  to  the,"  Shel- 
ley, 266. 

"  What  is  the  Use  ? "  Ellsworth, 
289. 

White,  R.  G.,  critic,  cited,  246. 

"  White  Rose,  The,"  anon.,  quo- 
ted, 171. 

Whitman,  W.,  his  Americanism, 
129;  as  a  poet  of  Nature,  195; 
compared  with  Lanier,  196; 
his  defects,  ib.;  genius  and  cos- 
mic mood,  253 ;  quoted,  38  ; 
and  see  35,  158. 

Whittier,  national  sentiment  of, 
129;  passion  of  his  song,  268; 
a  poet  of  sympathy,  ib. ;  Snow- 
Bound,  ib. ;  and  see  136,  195. 

"Will  Waterproof's  Lyrical  Mo- 
nologue," Tennyson,  215. 

Wilson,  J.,  58. 

Winter's  Tale,  A,  Shakespeare, 
189. 

Wisdom,  of  true  genius,  284  ;  and 
see  Didacticism,  Truth,  etc. 

Wit,  213. 

Witch  of  Atlas,  The,  Shelley,  246. 

With  Fire  and  Sword,  Sienkie- 
wicz,  137. 

Wonder,  245 ;  and  see  Imagina- 
tion. 

"  Woodnotes,"  Emerson,  225. 

Words,  the  Power  of.  See  Lan- 
guage. 

Wores,  T.,  painter,  quoted,  31. 

Wordsworth,  on  imagination,  20 ; 
on  prose  and  verse,  ib.  ;  on  po- 


338 


ANALYTICAL  INDEX 


etry  as  the  antithesis  of  science, 
ib.,  and  28 ;  on  insight,  45 ;  his 
classification  of  his  poems,  77  ; 
his  more  enduring  poems,  172  ; 
his  pathetic  lyrics,  184 ;  broad 
effects  of,  194 ;  his  repose,  203 ; 
his  study  of  nature's  effects  upon 
himself,  204;  reasons  for  his 
influence,  210;  Shairp's  view 
of,  218,  219;  "the  faculty  di- 
vine," 259  ;  on  poetry  as  emo- 
tion, 263 ;  the  "  passion  "  of, 
ib. ;  originality  of,  277  ;  quoted, 
63,  136,  205,  206,  236,  261 ;  and 


see  60,  125,  142,  173,  189,  190, 

193,  252. 
Wordsworthians,  the,  47  ;  Arnold 

on,  219. 
Wutkeriftg  Heights,  E.  Bronte, 

137,  273. 

"Ye  Mariners  of  England,"  Camp- 
bell, 266. 

Zest,  of  the  antique  temperament, 
J39>  T43!  its  worth,  and  how 
sustained,  160,  161 ;  dough's, 
295- 


THE   END. 


VICTORIAN   POETS. 

With  Topical  Analysis  in  margin,  and  full  Analytical 
Index.  Twenty-first  Edition.  Revised  and  extended,  by 
a  Supplementary  Chapter,  to  the  Fiftieth  Year  of  the 
Period  under  Review.  Crown  8vo,  $2.25  ;  half  calf, 


The  leading  poets  included  in  Mr.  Stedman's  survey  are 
Tennyson,  Landor,  the  Brownings,  Hood,  Arnold,  "  Barry 
Cornwall,"  Buchanan,  Morris,  Swinburne,  and  Rossetti. 
It  also  embraces  very  fully  the  minor  poets  and  schools  of 
the  period,  and  with  its  copious  notes  and  index  forms  a 
complete  guide-book  to  the  poetry  of  the  Victorian  era. 

AMERICAN  CRITICISMS. 

The  new  chapter  which  Mr.  Stedman  has  added  to  his  "  Victorian  Poets  " 
reviews  the  product  of  the  past  twelve  years,  thus  bringing  the  English  record 
down  to  even  date  with  the  "  Poets  of  America,"  and  making  the  two  books 
more  exactly  the  companions  and  complements  of  each  other.  The  fresh  ma- 
terial, which  comprises  about  seventy  pages,  is  devoted  in  a  large  measure  to 
the  examination  of  present  poetical  tendencies,  and  this  is  necessarily  illus- 
trated with  mention  of  a  great  number  of  minor  poets,  —  so  many  that  we  have 
a  nearly  exhaustive  record  of  those  entitled  even  to  passing  attention.  Such 
a  catalogue,  pointed  by  quick  touches  of  criticism,  is  of  high  value  in  defining 
the  literary  movement,  and  has  no  relation  to  any  excessive  estimate  of  the 
real  value  of  the  current  poetical  work.  .  .  .  We  close  the  book  with  re- 
newed admiration  of  the  masterly  handling  of  a  fascinating  but  difficult  sub- 
ject, and  with  the  gratification  of  knowing  that  America  has  produced  the  best 
book  yet  written  on  the  English  poetry  of  th'is  age.  —  New  York  Tribune. 

This  delightful  book.  .  .  .  Among  the  best  examples  of  criticism  in  our  lit- 
erature. .  .  .  We  ought,  in  justice  to  its  encyclopedic  character,  to  state  that 
it  contains  notices,  more  or  less  extended,  of  every  poet  of  any  pretension*  who 
has  flourished  in  England  since  1835;  and  that  these  notices  are  not  simply 
critical,  but  al*o  biographical,  those  incidents  and  influences  in  the  lives  of 
the  subjects  which  may  be  supposed  to  have  had  a  moulding  influence  upon 
them  being  made  prominent.  The  book  is  thus  a  handbook  to  the  poets  and 
poetry  of  the  period.  —  Hartford  Courant. 

The  work  is  as  admirable  in  form  as  it  is  skillful  in  method.  Biography, 
analysis,  and  criticism  constitute  the  threefold  direction  in  which  Mr.  Stedman 
has  expended  his  thought.  In  all  the  field  he  shows  himself  thoroughly  at 
home,  a  familiar  friend  as  it  were  of  the  men  and  women  of  whose  characters 
and  lives  he  writes,  an  intelligent  student  of  their  writings,  and  an  apprecia- 
tive though  discriminating  critic  of  their  qualities.  —  The  Congtegationalist 
(Boston). 


With  its  companion  volume,  "  Poets  of  America,"  it  is  an  example  of  a  very 
high  if  not  the  highest  kind  of  criticism.  While  giving  the  best  studies  of 
individuals  and  schools,  it  yet  goes  beyond  the  individual  and  school,  and 
treats  the  art  of  puetry  in  the  most  comprehensive  way.  It  suggests  to  us  that 
as  modern  historians  have  made  a  vast  improvement  in  the  writing  of  State 
hi.itory,  in  a  somewhat  similar  way  Mr.  btedman  has  improved  on  former 
methods  of  criticism.  —  The  New  Englander. 

Like  all  really  good  work  of  the  sort,  it  cannot  be  made  known  to  the  reader 
except  in  the  author's  ipstssima  verba.  We  can  only  counsel  our  friends  to 
read  for  themselves,  and  tell  them  that  they  will  find  store  of  delights  in  the 
matured  and  thoughtful  exposition  of  a  scholar  and  man  of  letters,  who  under- 
stands his  business  thoroughly,  and  is  constrained  neither  by  fear  nor  favor  to 
say  the  thing  he  does  not  feel.  —  The  Churchman  (New  York). 

One  of  the  most  thorough,  workman-like,  and  artistic  pieces  of  real  critical 
writing  that  we  have  in  English.  For  the  period  covered  by  it,  it  is  the  most 
comprehensive,  profound,  and  lucid  literary  exposition  that  has  appeared  in 
this  country  or  elsewhere.  —  Prof.  MOSES  COIT  TYLER,  Cornell  University. 

Mr.  Stedman's  volume  is  not  merely  good,  but  it  presents  the  best  view  of 
the  poets  of  the  present  generation  in  England  that  is  anywhere  to  be  bad.  — 
ARTHUR  OILMAN. 

ENGLISH  CRITICISMS. 

We  ought  to  be  thankful  to  those  who  write  with  competent  skill  and  under- 
standing, with  honesty  of  purpose,  and  with  diligence  and  thoroughness  of 
execution.  And  Mr.  Stedman,  having  chosen  to  work  in  this  line,  deserves 
the  thanks  of  English  scholars  by  these  qualities  and  by  something  more.  He 
is  faithful,  studious,  and  discerning ;  of  a  sane  and  reasonable  temper,  and 
in  the  main  a  judicial  one  ;  his  judgment  is  disciplined  and  exercised,  and  his 
decisions,  even  when  we  cannot  agree  with  them,  are  based  on  intelligent 
grounds.  —  The  Saturday  Review  (London). 

There  is  none  among  ourselves  who  equals  him  in  breadth  of  sympathy,  or 
in  ability  to  resist  allurement  by  the  will-o'-the-wisp  of  mere  form.  ...  It  is 
because  Mr.  Stedman  strenuously  endeavors  to  maintain  his  position  on  a 
truer  foundation  that  his  history  of  poetry  in  the  Victorian  epoch  is  so  valua- 
ble. .  .  .  Not  only  the  best  book  of  its  kind,  but  worth  (say)  fifty  reams  of 
ordinary  anonymous  criticism  of  home  production.  —  WILLIAM  SHARP,  in  The 
Academy  (London). 

He  has  undertaken  a  wide  subject,  and  has  treated  it  with  great  ability  and 
competent  knowledge.  —  The  Spectator  (London). 

The  book  is  generous  and  enlightened,  and  bears  the  stamp  of  unfailing 
honesty.  —  The  Academy  (London). 


POETS  OF  AMERICA. 

With  full  Notes  in  margin,  and  careful  Analytical  Index. 
By  EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN,  author  of  "Victorian  Poets,"  etc. 
Eleventh  Edition.  I2mo,  $2.25;  half  calf,  $3.50. 

CONTENTS  :  Early  and  Recent  Conditions  ;  Growth  of  the  American  School ; 
William  Cullen  Bryant;  John  Greenleaf  Whittier;  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson; 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow;  Edgar  Allan  Poe  ;  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes; 
James  Russell  Lowell ;  Walt  Whitman  ;  Bayard  Taylor ;  The  Outlook. 

AMERICAN  CRITICISMS. 

The  appearance  of  this  book  is  a  notable  event  in  American  letters.  No 
such  thorough  and  conscientious  study  of  the  tendencies  and  qualities  of  our 
poetry  has  been  attempted  before,  nor  has  any  volume  of  purely  literary  criti- 
cism been  written  in  this  country  upon  so  broad  and  noble  a  plan  and  with 
such  ample  power.  .  .  .  Mr.  Stedman's  work  stands  quite  alone ;  it  has  had  no 
predecessor,  and  it  leaves  room  for  no  rival.  —  New  York  Tribune. 

It  is  indeed  refreshing  to  come  upon  a  volume  so  devoid  of  the  limitations 
of  current  criticism,  so  wholesome,  so  sane,  so  perceptive,  so  just,  and  so  vivi- 
fying as  we  find  in  this  collection  of  essays  on  the  "Poets  of  America."  . . .  The 
volume  may  indeed  be  regarded  as  epoch-making.  Its  influence  on  our  na- 
tional literature  is  likely  to  be  both  deep  and  lasting.  —  The  Literary  World 
(Boston). 

Mr.  Stedman's  temperament,  training,  and  experience  eminently  fit  him  for 
the  execution  of  a  critical  work  on  the  poets  of  America,  or,  indeed,  the  poets 
of  any  land.  He  has  ingrained  honesty,  breadth  of  apprehension,  versatile 
sympathies,  exact  knowledge,  and  withal  he  is  a  poet  with  a  poet's  passion  for 
beauty  and  love  of  sOng  ;  and  so  he  is  a  wise  critic,  a  candid  and  luminous  inter- 
preter of  the  many-voiced  muse.  .  .  .  The  candor,  sincerity,  and  sympathetic 
spirit  in  which  Mr.  Stedman  treats  the  many  themes  that  come  under  review 
in  connection  with  the  poets  included  in  his  scheme  are  apparent  all  through 
the  treatise. —  The  Dial  (Chicago). 

Such  a  work  involves  many  kinds  of  talent,  great  patience,  and  am-ple  schol- 
arship; above  all,  it  involves  genius,  and  if  the  quality  of  this  book  were  to  be 
summed  up  in  a  single  word,  this  one  pregnant  word  comes  first  to  mind,  and 
remains  after  fullest  reflection.  ...  As  a  body  of  criticism  this  volume  stands 
alone  in  our  literature,  and  is  not  likely  soon  to  have  a  companion  ;  it  justifies 
and  permanently  establishes  a  reputation  in  this  field  already  deeply  grounded. 
It  gives  our  criticism  a  standard  at  once  exacting  and  catholic,  and  it  restates, 
by  way  of  commentary  on  our  own  poetry,  the  great  underlying  laws  of  verse. 
It  is  criticism  of  a  kind  which  only  poetic  minds  produce.  —  Christian  Union 
(New  York). 

Mr.  Stedman  brings  to  the  task  an  unusual  familiarity  with  the  whole  of  our 
literature,  unusual  acquaintance  with  the  tools  of  the  poetical  p;uild,  and  a  very 
keen  notion  as  to  how  those  tools  have  been  used  abroad  as  well  as  at  home. 
.  .  .  The  studies  themselves  are  admirable.  They  show  a  conscience  which 
takes  in  good  work,  and,  at  the  same  time,  considers  the  humanities,  —  which 
remembers  what  is  due  to  art,  and  what  must  be  granted  to  human  frailty. — 
The  Critic  (New  York). 

The  book  is  one  which  the  student  and  lover  of  poetry  cannot  deny  himself. 
—  Christian  Register  (Boston). 


It  will  not  be  possible  for  any  sensitive  reader  of  the  poets  of  America  to 
forget  that  Mr.  Stedman  is  also  a  poet;  but  it  will  be  equally  impossible  for 
such  a  reader  to  regret  it.  The  solid  qualities  of  the  book  are  the  result  of 
patient,  conscientious,  scholarly  work,  which  shows  on  almost  every  page  ;  its 
finer  qualities,  the  delicate  touch  of  sympathy,  the  glow  of  hope,  the  spiritual 
magnetism,  are  the  fruit  of  tne  poetic  temperament  which  no  amount  of  in- 
dustry can  ever  cultivate  unless  it  first  has  the  seed.  —  The  New  Princeton 
Review. 

A  true  critical  insight  enables  Mr.  Stedman  to  deal  with  his  subject  in  a 
generous  and  a  noble  spirit,  and  yet  in  one  that  is  eminently  just  and  faithful 
to  fact.  His  critical  gifts  are  of  a  kind  rarely  to  be  found  in  this  country,  and 
none  are  more  needed  in  our  literature  at  the  present  time.  —  Unitarian  Re- 
view. 

This  book  should  quickly  become  a  standard  wherever  cultivated  persons 
desire  an  honest,  sympathetic,  suggestive,  entertaining,  and  experienced  guide 
to  the  most  interesting  epoch  of  American  literature. —  The  Independent. 

We  are  greatly  indebted  to  Mr.  Stedman  for  this  fine  example  of  what  lit- 
erary criticism  should  be.  .  .  .  No  one  not  himself  a  poet,  and  a  poet  with  a 
noble  spirit,  could  have  written  this  book.  —  THOMAS  S.  HASTINGS,  D.  D., 
in  The  Presbyterian  Review. 

This  is  the  history  of  American  poetry ;  it  is  conceived  and  executed  in  the 
grand  style  of  literary  criticism,  and  it  does  not  fall  below  its  promise.  —  GEO. 
E.  WOODBERRY,  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly. 

FOREIGN  CRITICISMS. 

In  his  "  Poets  of  America  "  Mr.  Stedman  displays  the  same  competent  skill, 
honesty  of  purpose,  and  painstaking  thoroughness  of  execution  [as  in  his 
work  on  "  Victorian  Poets  "|;  and  he  adds  to  these  qualities  the  great  ad- 
vantage of  being  on  his  native  soil.  To  the  students  of  American  verse  his 
volume  is  almost  indispensable.  .  .  .  Every  one  will  not  agree  with  his  con- 
clusions; but  no  one  can  differ  from  so  well-informed  and  conscientious  a 
critic  without  self-distrust.  —  The  Quarterly  Review  (London). 

This  book,  with  its  few  and  only  superficial  defects,  and  with  its  many  solid 
merits,  is  one  which  most  persons  of  taste  and  culture  will  like  to  possess.  — 
The  Saturday  Review  (London). 

Mr.  Stedman  deserves  thanks  for  having  devoted  his  profound  erudition 
and  the  high  impartiality  of  which  he  is  capable,  to  making  us  acquainted  with 
the  literature  of  poetry  as  it  has  existed  from  the  beginning  in  his  country. 
His  important  and  thorough  study  is  conducted  with  the  method,  the  scrupu- 
lousness, the  perspicacity,  which  he  applied  formerly  to  the  work  of  the  Vic- 
torian Poets.  —  La  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes  (Paris). 


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